The Best Intentions
by KMS Snape
Summary: AU. Severus Snape agreed to take in his troublesome godson only for duration of the summer holiday. Of course, things rarely go according to plan. Follow up to 'The Child of Phoenix'.
1. 1: The Best Intentions, Pt I

**The Best Intentions**

**Disclaimer:** Unless JK Rowling secretly had a fourth kid named Dana, I've got no legal rights to the _Harry Potter_ universe. But whatever you've never heard of belongs to **me**.

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**A/N**: This is the second story in the _Child of Phoenix_ series. If you haven't read it, you'll be lost. And thanks to **Dimak** for helping to clarify a few things with this chapter (even if it was nearly two years ago!). Cheers!

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_**Warning**__: Original Character point of view. This story is not __**Harry **__**Potter**__-centered. Main canon characters will be mentioned, but rarely make an appearance in this piece._

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_All too well. – Inward thoughts._

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_**Kill 'em.**__ – Golradir thought-speech._

_-_

"_The greatest harm can result from the best intentions." – Terry __Goodkind, author_

ooooo

**One:** The Best Intentions, Part I

Seventy-six.

It was the number of times her heart drummed in her chest in the last minute.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump_, pulsing "seventy-six, seventy-six" as if her bosom were pressed to his ear, rather than four feet across the seat. Seventy-six, seventy-six.

He'd counted, he was sure, he'd counted.

_Thump-thump._

**We**_** counted.**_

He could hear the roar of blood flooding her arteries and veins, red rivers coursing throughout her body, its stream singing out to him, calling his name as they pumped life to her organs and rosy color to her cheeks at seventy-six beats per minute.

Sweet blood gave her life: delicate, valuable, easy to destroy life.

_**Don't deny us its song, boy.**_

Her heart beat seventy-six times per minute, pumping blood to every part of her body: arms-legs-hands-feet-head-face-nose-mouth. Her mouth, her mouth that had been running nonstop for every seventy-six beats, spouting out fragrant puffs of past comings and goings of food, drink, and memory.

The faint scent of fruits and beverage off her rolling tongue and sweet lips suffused the air around him, grating his senses and making his hands twitch and the muscles beneath his skin spasm in impatience.

Beyond the sweet tune of her heart his olfaction flared to life, arousing his interest. Underneath her delicate flowery scent laid the raw earthen aroma of mingled citrus and soil, sweat and spice, half of which belonged to the block-headed buffoon she called beau. He jerked his head and rolled his neck as the familiar ropes of blood frenzy yanked his mind in several different directions.

Her high, flighty feminine pitch he once found both musical and consoling, violently jarred his thoughts and wrought havoc on his senses as it echoed from everywhere around him. He pressed a finger to his ear and sharply sighed, jiggling it viciously to unsuccessfully rid it of the bothersome ring of her voice. He loved her, once.

_**We don't do love.**_

_We don't?_

_**Not unless we're weak. I'm not weak; are you?**_

Hesitation, for the briefest of seconds before, _No._

He thought he was imagining it, but felt a cold smile stretch across his mind's face. _**We're not weak. Embrace us, accept—**_

A sharp stab lanced through his head, momentarily blinding his vision golden before what felt like an invisible hand wrapped around his brain and squeezed, driving the whispers to the back of his mind. The blissful hollow feeling he associated with it did not come this time, nor did the impression of fickle peace.

His body still felt as if it were mechanical, locked somehow, as if he couldn't access it without a key, but his mind still worked, making sure his senses ran wild.

He tugged at the collar of his jumper as her shrill laughter filled the cab and flinched as a sharp nudge dug into his sides. Annoyance mounted, wracking with the tension in his body and he turned to unleash his wrath, faltering as his eyes caught sight of the vein pounding against the expanse of dimly lit, well-tanned neck, visibly playing beneath the skin. His sharp eyes narrowed, watching, waiting, his mind and emotions coiling into him like a serpent readying for a strike.

Eighty-one.

His heart thumped a strong eighty-one times in his broad chest, covered with layers upon layers of the poshest of cottons and doused in the undoubtedly masculine scents of musk and slightly sweet, woody, cedar.

_**Man-blood always was much sweeter.**_

The man's chest rumbled with talk and laughter, rattling around in his mind, and his hair, the same color of straw as she—the pitchy-pitchy one—smelled strongly of sweat and fragrance that was not his own, fragrance that was clearly female. His breath came out in short pants and he raised a clammy, unsteady hand to run through his hair, red, red like sweet blood. He trembled at the mere word in what—disgust? No. Pleasure?

_**Yesss.**_

Another quick jerk of the head, his vision momentarily shadowed by images of trees and lights and teeth and greenery and red, so much red...

_**Yes, that's right. We need blood, just a whiff, a feel, a taste—**_

He shook his head brusquely as the invisible grasp stemmed the rising wave of longing with a firm, brisk yank. One tug, and the haze of whispers blearing his sight and mind's tranquility, echoing through his body the scents and sounds and sights, cleared, jarring him from distorted gold whimsies into sharp, leaden reality.

This time, with the iron grip came the dull, delicate peace, and it was this time Kaltagonus Smythe opened his eyes, stunned, quickly realizing he was being driven into the belly of the beast.

ooooo

"_Ohh_," Kaltag started at Nikola's longing moan. "We're home! Gods, I can't wait to take a bath. Thanos practically slobbered all over me the entire trip to Olympos." She distastefully grumped.

"Hey, keep that shi—uh, _stuff_ to yourself. The less I know about your sordid love life, the better." Starbuck deadpanned, and even if he couldn't see it in the darkness of the car, Kaltag could_ feel_ him scowling, for strange tendrils of wakefulness, like the long arms of night grasping at their speeding car, lurked on the edge of his mind's devious calm. It was bizarre, to say the least, adding to his mounting sense of dread as the Smythe Manor grew larger and larger ahead.

All too soon, they were circling the stone statue and were pulled up to the front steps. "Home!" Nikola's piercing wail of relief caused an unpleasant tingle to run up his spine, unsettling the cold whispers in his ear.

There came a throaty chuckle from the driver. "Your father missed you, too." His stomach churned slightly in discomfort and displeasure as the blonde Entity prattled on in excited tones, much to the amusement of the others. But Kaltag's eyes were glaring ahead, staring at the columns illuminated by the vehicle's headlights. The large manor seemed so foreign to view now that he knew the truth.

The car suddenly paused and the engine cut off. "Home at last." the passenger in front of him announced. The redhead's stomach turned at the statement. Home. He swallowed the barking retort reverberating within the walls of his mind.

He felt a sharp elbow in his ribs again jolting him from his thoughts and he whipped around to glower into darkened eyes. "Budge over, Tag. Nik's taking too long." Following a short pause, the eldest moved wordlessly against the door, pulling the latch and shuffling out. The blond heaved out quickly behind him and moved to help both the driver and the passenger unload their belongings.

Kaltag narrowed his eyes over the dim road behind him and the faint lights coming from the manor windows. He felt a cold stab spike through him as his eyes fell on a dimly lit window in the far corner. It was shrouded by drapes, which shifted closed as he caught sight of it, but there was something uncomfortably familiar about it. And he didn't like this feeling.

His stupor of discomfort was disrupted as the chatty Nikola took to the front steps, noisily describing how she could eat an ox, as she wielded a disenchanted tufty black cat. The fog of his mind shifted before it settled, and a familiar ache of yearning spread through him.

_**Forget the girl: we need something quick, something sustainable.**_

Kaltag froze. His breath quickened, and he quickly knew something terrible was about to happen. Every time that voice turned up, he felt heavy, his mind hazed over and he felt desperate cravings. It sometimes felt as if he hadn't eaten in weeks, and that he'd do anything to satisfy his urges.

_**The boy. Grab the boy.**_

Kaltag swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. He sniffed at the air, noting the fading scent of citrus and the overpowering aroma of cedar and musk, and wondering if it was just his imagination. He deemed he must have been getting sick already. But . . . he'd never heard voices when he was sick. And he'd remember _that_ harsh voice if he'd heard it before.

_**Grab the boy!**_

Suddenly, there was a brief pang in his chest, and he felt his heart jolt slightly. Stifling a wince, Kaltag restrained his hand from shooting to his chest in reflex. Instead he clenched his fist, narrowing his eyes as another tone infiltrated his thoughts. "We'll get our things, Daedelus." Starbuck flashed him a tetchy look as he began unloading their belongings. "You gonna help me or not?"

He felt his lip curl slightly and could have sworn his skin flushed golden. Daedelus shot him a brief look of veiled concern, he noticed, and returned to the front of the car. As Starbuck turned his back on him, Kaltag felt his heart leap in his chest, not of his own accord.

_**Easy prey. Not even you could muck this up, boy.**_

Daedelus was rummaging around noisily, muttering to himself as the blond Being suddenly weighed him down with a trunk. "Wild year, eh?"

_**Beg to differ. Snap his neck.**_

Kaltag gave a subtle start, his moist hands letting the trunk slide to the ground with a heavy 'thunk' as he darted a glance over his shoulder. The voice was closer now, and louder than before. He struggled to keep his trembling hands still as he received another trunk with effort.

"Too bad we won't have another one," the blond continued to talk, chuckling as he hauled out the wiry owl cage. "I'd be surprised if Aripedes was able to pull that off."

_**Take him now!**_The redhead exhaled sharply, spinning on his heel and peering out into the darkness of the private lane, wide-eyed. _**What are you waiting for you idiot? Drag him to the bushes and take his life!**_

Kaltag swallowed, steadying the trunks he nearly toppled over. This couldn't be happening...

". . . But I guess I'm not giving them _too_ much credit; our years usually are very exciting, what with our small number and all…"

_**Shut … him … up! We don't like it when they talk, remember?**_

Breathing was becoming quite a task as his chest started to hurt. Large blue eyes glanced up and down the road and between the trees lining the narrow way, but all he could see was the stretching darkness.

_**If they talk, it's harder to shut them up: shut him up **_**now.**

Kaltag sharply breathed, "No . . . "

The blond eyed him, confused. "No what? 'No' you're not going to let him out, or 'no' you don't sully yourself with menial labor?" He sneered, but Kaltag couldn't hear him, as his heart gave another painful jolt and the image of Starbuck holding out Argentum's cage was quickly being overcast by golden shadow.

_**Set his throat afire!**_

"Fine, you lazy sod. I'm letting your damned pigeon loose."

_**Boil his blood until his heart explodes!**_

A loud squawk momentarily split through the fog but the feeling of blood rushing past his ears and fueling his need overtook him. The musk and sweat was overpowering, washing over him, wrapping around him and pulling them toward their prey.

_**Carve that brazen tongue from his mouth!**_

"I . . . no, I—!" the redhead wavered, desperately trying to regain control of his thoughts. He didn't want this. He didn't want to kill Starbuck. He couldn't kill Starbuck, no, never. "We c—" His throat closed up and words died halfway there. " . . . I can't."

The blond Being paused from unlatching the door of the frantic owl's cage and eyed his companion warily. "You can't open the door and let him out for a poo? God, you're stuck up. You're such a... Hey, you don't look so hot." Starbuck didn't wait for an answer and turned to the silver-white bird with a scowl. "Can you shut him up? He's really starting to piss me off."

_**Kill him!**_

What was wrong with him? He didn't want to kill Starbuck! As if his body was disagreeing, another painful stab clutched his heart. This time, the boy let out a choked gasp and grabbed his chest.

_**Embrace it!**_

Heat suddenly began to gather in his palms at a rapid rate. _Wait a minute . . . _Kaltag's eyes fell suddenly to his hands. He'd felt this before. This heat; it was different from the times he'd used it during defense, for school. This heat was unique.

_**Burn him!**_

It was then Kaltag's memory flashed — he heard the yelps, the groans and cries of pain. He saw the masks, the faces, the anguish. They were in pain, they couldn't even struggle properly against the trees! He saw . . . he saw red hair, white skin, and black clothes. He saw red eyes, pointed teeth, and contorted faces. He felt their pain … and was exhilarated.

_**Stubborn jackass! What are you waiting for?**_

Kaltag's hands shook as his mind completely clouded over, blocking Starbuck and the now hysterical Argentum from view. He heard the dissonant gurgling cries of horror, saw the shocked expressions, the fear . . . and green eyes. Determined, green eyes.

Without warning the silver cuff on his wrist sent a jolt of electricity shooting up his arm and through his body. And quite suddenly, his mind cleared the haze and his tightened fists unclenched in his hair. The intangible hand of reprieve had returned, clawing at the snarling beast inside of his head. It definitely wasn't going to go without a fight, this time, wreaking havoc with Kaltag's senses as the world sharpened and reduced violently around him, leaving a massive headache to form in its wake.

"Watch it!" Kaltag hissed, caught unawares as he felt something sharp scrape at his hand, bringing him crashing back to reality, to Starbuck, who was staring at him with an odd look, holding an empty owl cage. "Vicious ball of feathers . . . where'd you get Cujo the owl from, anyway?"

The redhead only breathed throatily in response, his world taking on a slightly wooly quality as the weight of Argentum settled on his shoulder. Oddly enough, his presence seemed to drown out the hissing snarls of the monster rampaging in his head.

"Tag? Hey?" He blinked, cautiously finding his bearings. Large white building. Sweeping darkness all around. Lights in the far corner window. Right. He swallowed thickly. He was . . . _home_, according to the records at Aripedes. Not that he'd call this empty white castle home; not with _him_ here.

At the thought of that man, the man who had the brazen _audacity_ to call himself his father, he felt the sweat in his palms boil and sizzle along the burning flesh.

He wanted to kill something, and he wanted to kill it _now_. He felt the very sockets of his eyes flare.

_**That's right. Kill the boy.**_

The toxic voice wrapped around his brain, fogging it up again to one goal in mind. The world was lost in a fuzzy haze of crimson, he took a step closer to the unpacking boy, he was so close, he could draw the heat from the prey's body, he —

"Boys!" A voice barked from the doorway. "Quit dawdling and get inside. It's freezing out here."

That voice, coupled with the warning pinch of Argentum's talons and a warning shock from the silver band sent the venomous tone dissipating. The scarlet-hued world cleared from his vision and he was left, standing in the gravel driveway, hearing the blond grumbling, "Says the man whose office is below forty!" Kaltag sighed, his heart thrumming steadily in his chest with painful spikes.

It was gone. Gone, but its voice still twisted through his thoughts. Not as strongly, but just enough to remind him of its presence.

He shook back to reality, ignoring the constant undertone in his mind. Kaltag barely had time to beat the creature down again before a solid object was thumped into his chest, sending Argentum flapping into the skies with an indignant screech. "Thanks for all the help, Kaltagonus," Starbuck scathingly praised. "My hero. You can take your own junk inside, now."

The younger Being trudged up the stairway into the brightness of the foyer, leaving the redhead with the last trunk. Sighing shakily, Kaltag wiped the bleeding hand on his trouser leg and turned to follow. He had almost reached the top when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

His flinch must have upset the hand, because it was gone a moment later. Instead, he locked gazes with the worried eyes of his father's aide and second-in-command, Daedelus Diomedes. The Vice Admiral smiled crookedly, effectively masking his apprehension. Kaltag resisted the urge to sigh: Daedelus was never one to show fear; even in the face of murderers. He resisted the urge to snort: he'd probably got a lot of experience from being around criminals like Spiridon for years . . . .

"Sorry. Here," Daedelus handed him a thick gray package. "If you need any references . . . " he trailed off with a nod. The boy eyed the packet in bemusement and finally shrugged, resolving to get a better look at it later.

"Thanks." He flatly replied, just wanting to get away from that questioning gaze and all the sickening concern. Honestly, what could that do for him?

"Are you all right?"

_Oh, perfectly fine,_ he'd wanted to say. _As fine as one can be when they're going psycho, of course._

"You okay, kiddo?" The redhead inwardly cursed. He was starting to feel a bit sick, really. The Being had hoped it'd escaped the militiaman's notice, but he was about as obvious as a wolf amongst a flock of sheep, nowadays. "You look ill."

Kaltag didn't entertain him with an answer, as he must have looked haunted, dazed and tired. In all honesty, that's how he felt. He made a noncommittal noise and suddenly found Daedelus' hand cupping his cheek, his long fingers curling around the nape of his neck and then the back of a palm pressed to his forehead. Kaltag automatically leaned into the warmth, faintly smelling the jasmine of his lotion. "Oh, Tago . . . " he murmured with a frown. "You might be coming down with something."

_Temperature of 101, with possible violent urges to maim and murder, perhaps?_

Again, he resisted the urge to snort. Right . . . how did one cure the possession of an ancient serial killer sickness? He doubted modern medicine had come up with a solution to that (other than execution).

His hands twisted in his pockets under the rapt scrutiny. Pushing the hand off his temple to get away from the warm, enticing feeling of rushing blood, he grumbled, "Whatever."

"Get some rest, Kaltag." Daedelus seemed disinclined to leave him here like this, but knew he had little choice in the matter.

The same voice, figure now shadowed in the doorway warned, "Kaltagonus! Don't make me repeat myself: inside, _now_."

And then Daedelus nodded, his eyes lingering on the younger Celestial's dull blue ones, the significant meaning there, right behind those dark, brooding eyes, but unspoken: 'If you need me ... don't hesitate.'

Swallowing thickly, the boy nodded. It seemed all he could do to communicate right now. Daedelus lingered for a moment before descending the stairs. Kaltag turned inside and left the door open so the men could continue their hauling.

He had barely cleared the threshold before he was assaulted by the feeling of old, familiar anger. It was as if it was waiting for him in the very air of the manor. Oddly enough, the whispering voice in his ear dampened considerably as he continued to step inside. The atmosphere felt strange, as if someone had sucked half the air out of the atrium. Out of the hundreds of times he'd entered this house, he had never felt that before.

Before Spiridon could properly tongue-lash him, the sound of slapping shoes could be heard thundering down the steps. "Papa!" Squealed Nikola, pouncing on the unsuspecting General. He found his arms full with his daughter as she rained kisses on his stubbly cheeks. "Oh, dad, seriously . . . I love you and all, but this bushman theme you're pulling off . . . _not_ _cute_." She squeezed him tightly again, pulling back with a smirk.

After the blonde Entity's cynical greeting, Starbuck smiled awkwardly and gingerly hugged his father, baring his forehead for a kiss. "Dad." He quietly acknowledged, much less enthusiastic than his sister. Kaltag stood back to watch the mawkish display, seething.

If only they knew they were hugging and kissing a monster.

Spiridon tightly smiled at his youngest, patting him on the back. "To the kitchen with you." His voice was rough with exhaustion. "Erastus has prepared all day for your arrival." As soon as the words left his mouth, the two were gone, betting all the way to the kitchen on who could eat the most biscuits.

He was finally left alone with him. Kaltag hadn't realized he was scowling all through the displays of affection until his . . . until _Spiridon_ spoke. "How are you feeling?"

Kaltagonus didn't answer, only bent slightly to grab his trunk to tow it up the steps. He stifled a grunt as he used his cut hand by habit, but smoothly switched to his other. Spiridon impatiently stated, "Do not exert yourself; Daedelus can take care of that. Come with me."

Kaltag didn't budge; he continued trying to pull his luggage as if he hadn't heard him. He heard the irritated huff. "I said Daedelus would take care of that."

"L-Leave me alone." He cursed his shaky voice and how weak he sounded. He shouldn't fear this man. He should be angry with him. He should hate him for what he had done. The halted voice in his head whispered that he did in fact hate him, but he ignored that as well. When he felt a heavy hand grip him out of his thoughts, Kaltag violently yanked his hand back with a glare. _"Don't touch me!"_

Spiridon barely reacted when he did this, and his hand moved to rub his thigh. His attention was glued to the mixture of red and gold on the young Being's fingers. His eyes swam with something unreadable as he unnecessarily stated, "You're bleeding."

"I'll live." Kaltag bitterly returned.

"Your blood is poisonous." The General forcefully asserted.

His lips thinned, and he was grateful for the return of his confidence. "Considering everything else, I've no doubt."

The magnate frowned. "If it is consumed or absorbed by the skin, wounded or not, the victim dies. I'm sure you know this."

_All too well._

He sighed heavily, looking away as the memories of last week assaulted his mind. Forcing back the murmurs in his mind, Kaltag twitched his head sharply as if expecting the whispers to exit through his ear, and stared the dark-haired Being down. "How do you know all this?" He brusquely inquired.

"Never mind how I know it; all that matters is that it's a lethal poison. Clean the wound, dress it, and discard the towels posthaste." He seriously instructed. "Burn them if you must, but use the fireplace. Make sure you wrap them well and come to my office for salve. We don't want anyone getting infected."

"Infected by what?"

Spiridon's expression darkened and Kaltag swore he heard him growl. "Just do as I say for _once_, Kaltagonus! _Please_ do not argue with me!"

The redhead opened his mouth to do just that, but closed it, looking away. The last thing he wanted was another death on account of him (_even if he deserves it,_ he darkly thought). But, he silently mused to himself, it wasn't really _his_ fault the first time.

_Even so_.

Sighing, he crossed his arms and looked away, the epitome of petulance. "Never mind then, you'll do that later. Come into my office." The teenager didn't move. "Kaltagonus." He could hear the underlying threat in that tone. Kaltagonus breathed through his nose, like a bull preparing to run a taunting idiot through with its horns. Spiridon tilted his head dangerously. "Don't think you are so grown to disobey me. I can still take you over my knee."

The boy's response garnered a furious scowl. Laughing mirthlessly, the redhead mocked, "Well! That would be the first time in years that you've ever shown any emotion. Bravo!" He narrowed his eyes, a derisive smile sliding across his face. "Shall I get a chair or should I just bend over the railing?"

The creature swelled slightly in distress, clearly not amenable to that notion. Angrily, Kaltagonus stuffed it back into the recesses of his mind, not noticing the ease with which he had done it.

Spiridon looked about ready to blow, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, his breath quickening through his flared nostrils with every second he stared into those impertinent blue eyes, his nails damn near drawing blood from his palms and his lips pressed in a thin line. Every moment that passed, he wanted to wipe that smirk off the monster's face.

But he couldn't. For it wasn't the beast baiting him.

It was Kaltagonus, his son.

Pursing his lips, the General released a heavy sigh and forced his tumult of emotions to calm. "Let's take this into my office." He calmly stated. The Being knew it was an order.

"Ha, ha, right." He shook his head, his face contorting in a snarl so fierce that Spiridon thought the beast had taken over. "Because we wouldn't want precious Nikola and faultless Starbuck catching wind of dear papa's indiscretions. Let's play Keep Away, shall we?"

"Kaltagonus!"

But the boy marched past the incensed businessman into the office without another word. Spiridon exhaled in frustration, and sending up a silent prayer of patience to his sister-in-law, Eirene, followed the redhead into his office.

ooooo

From first glance, Kaltagonus would have assumed the office was as imposing as it had always been: miles of books lining the shelves along the walls, and the misleadingly comfortable furniture bare and raging fire in the hearth. But the office never looked more . . . different.

There were scattered cups around the room, most stale and stained with coffee, he noticed. A half eaten bowl of soup and crackers lay on the coffee table, long and filmed over, as if it had been there for days. The desk, which was always prided on being neat as a pin, was littered with documents, papers, and even parchment that looked more than a decade old.

There was more firewood by the grate than was usual, and even the hard couch, which he had the displeasure of sitting on for many a reprimand, had a blanket half strewn over the back. The door slammed, and his ever-terrible tormentor came into view.

"Sit."

Kaltag folded his arms in defiance. "I don't plan on being here long, so I'll stand."

Spiridon looked very displeased. "You will soon be an _ephebe_ in the eyes of the _polis_. You had better start acting like one." (1)

"I would if you'd let me." He countered angrily.

And suddenly, it was then the younger Being had realized the gravity of the situation. He wasn't sure if he'd enlightened himself, or if the sporadic whisperer had spurred his thoughts on. He gazed up at the stoic Celestial with widened eyes, his mouth gaping somewhat as the comprehension was wrung from him.

He stared at the haggard looking leader of the kingdom's armies, the dark shadows under his eyes, the shade of beard overtaking his face, the messy clumps of black hair, his tie — which was always choking him with formality — was slack, hung very loose around the yellowish collar of his shirt, which was un-tucked from his pants. His hard and tired eyes were bloodshot in the firelight. His face was rough and gaunt, with a distinctly pinched expression. Kaltag almost felt sorry for him. But that voice forced him to recall.

_This_. This was the same man who stared Lily Potter down and ripped the truth from her mind. And realization hit like a ton of bricks.

He was betrayed.

His anger flared and the fire wavered. Spiridon's gaze flicked to the fireplace before weighing down on him. "Peace, Kaltagonus. Do not let the beast consume you."

"Who says it's the beast?" He savagely stabbed. "My God," he breathlessly stated, "What have you done?"

"Kaltagonus — "

"I knew it," he went on. "Every time I wrote my name. Passed a picture of us. When I looked at Nikola, at Starbuck, at _you_ . . . looking in the mirror. Every time I — " He cursed himself for choking on his next words. " — Every time I called you 'father'," Spiridon twitched. Kaltagonus shook his head. "I just knew it."

"Kaltagonus, I — " The boy threw up his hands and turned toward the door.

"I can't hear this."

"Kaltagonus just — "

"I _don't_ want to hear it anymore!"

"Young one — "

"DON'T YOU DARE!" The young Being roared, facing the General, his expression livid. "Just — just _shut_ _up!"_

_"Kaltagonus!"_ The boy scowled when he reacted to that harsh tone naturally, falling into his submissive state. "Stop this nonsense at once. I'll not have you acting like a temperamental Cherub who's been denied a pleasure."

"Do you even hear yourself? Who are you to boss me around? My _father?"_ He spat the word. It did the trick; the man's dark eyes hardened even more.

Spiridon dangerously whispered, "I am doing this for your own good."

"You did this for yourself! To cover your own ass!"

"I've warned you about that language before!" Immediately, the boy looked away, glaring at the lively flames. Considerably calmed, Spiridon continued, "Your safety and peace of mind are what's most important to me right now."

A dry laugh erupted from the boy, leaving the General quite annoyed. "_Right_ _now_." He scorned. "Where were you when I needed you ten, thirteen years ago? Shut up in a boarding school thousands of miles away from home? No words of comfort, no scheduled visits; just a 'see you at Yule' or 'see you for summer break', or nothing at all. Where were you _then_?"

The magnate shifted uncomfortably. "I can only offer you my apologies for my aloof behavior."

"Your words do nothing but cut me, remind me of how much I _really_ mean to you." Kaltag squeezed his shaking hands into fists, forcing an indifferent tone. "I don't know who you think you're fooling, _Spiridon,_ but you can drop the act with me."

Said man pursed his lips and rubbed his eyes with a sigh, leaning against the back of the couch. "This is no act, Kaltagonus. I did what I had to do because I love you."

Memories of the flashbacks began to fill the boy's head and his fury increased. "You _kidnapped_ me, and then have the barefaced audacity to look me in the eye and tell me you love me!" Kaltag calmed his raw nerves before he exploded; the fire was already dangerously high, licking the mantel now and blackening the frames of pictures of him and Starbuck and Nikola. Emptying his frenzied mind of emotion, he murmured in disgust, "You're sick. You're worse than Mystikos."

Sooner or later, they both knew the conversation would come to this. Harry's mother. _His_ mother. He would've loved to think Spiridon looked ready to bolt, but quite the contrary; the man looked resigned, but prepared to face this head on. In fact, the General steeled himself with a deep breath. It only fueled the young Celestial's anger and he turned away from the dark-haired Being.

"I had to protect you."

"From what? Lily Potter?" Kaltag spat over his shoulder. "I doubt the word of a grieving mother could've done much damage."

"She knew too much." He firmly insisted.

"So rather than kill her — which would undoubtedly make your wife upset, not to mention strain your relationship," Kaltag spun around accusingly. Spiridon visibly fumed at the show of contempt, "You wiped her memory to save your marriage. You're a regular Cupid, aren't you?"

"Certain sacrifices must be made." The irate Being declared, as if that were a permissible answer. "I did what I had to do to keep you safe. And I'm not sorry for that."

Kaltag snorted. "I would be a fool to think so. But your words cannot justify what you did." Spiridon crossed his arms.

"And what did I do?"

"YOU," Kaltag compelled himself to lower his voice, "Took me away from my parents. You stole the truth from them just to steal the throne."

He was surprised then, thunderstruck, as the rough-faced man threw his head back and rumbled with laughter. "Silly boy," he chuckled disdainfully. "I didn't take you to capture the throne; Zeus can rot in the Underworld for all I care. And I didn't take you away from Lily Potter. Voldemort did."

"YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN HIM!"

"I kept you," Spiridon diligently ignored that gibe, "so you would be safer than the spells the most powerful magicks could've conjured. They would have done nothing but thwart Voldemort; but sooner or later, he would've found the Potters, and he did. And you know what happened.

"The only way you could've been protected was by blood. So whether you want to believe it or not, _I_ am your father, Kaltagonus. I am the one who raised you, brought you up to be as relentless as you are now. I am the one who educated you with the best of both worlds money could buy. _I_ paid for the clothes on your back and the roof over your head. _I _thwarted every suitor who dared lay eyes on you. _I_ stayed every hour with you when you fell sick. _I_ did the ritual dance with you _hours_ after you were born — you know how powerful old rites are. Skin to skin, blood to blood, Kaltagonus — _you are my son_." The beast shifted restlessly as the words tore into him, making his heart betray him as it beat unnaturally faster.

"I danced with you longer than I did with Nikola and Starbuck, I admit that; I bathed the doorway in wreaths of olives for _you_, something Starbuck would never forgive me for if he ever found out. I did it only because you were my pride, my firstborn—don't you turn around! Eyes front, you look at me!" Kaltag frowned, reluctantly facing the General. "And I knew, when I looked into your eyes, you were the only one who would forever take the heart of me — _my son._ You can't tell me I feel nothing for you, because you're _everything_ to me." Spiridon's raised voice ended in a sharp whisper that sliced through the warm air. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Kaltagonus was speechless, staring at the shiny-eyed man in a mixture of disbelief and apprehension. He had nothing to say to his fa — Spiridon's declaration, and he doubt he could form an adequate response. Yes, he did know how powerful the Celestial rites were; of course it meant something to him, too deeply to put into words. But he couldn't ignore the overwhelming feeling of fresh betrayal sweeping over him again and again and again, even with Spiridon's words, however true they were.

However strongly they affected him.

Stilling his trembling lips, the boy sucked in a breath. "I can't stay here." Spiridon tiredly sighed, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, a sign of disappointment that still appalled the young Being to no end when he felt himself become ashamed.

"You must."

"You can't keep me here forever. I'm old enough to make my own decisions. I've got to start sometime, somewhere, right?" He hated the desperate quality of his voice. _Oh, God . . . I sound like Weasley! _He suppressed the urge to shudder.

"Kaltagonus," Spiridon persevered, "You _can't_. In your fifth year, I performed the Blood Heir ritual with all of you." He paused, his eyes taking on a distant gleam. "That alone should tell you I consider you my heir, whether you think my blood runs through your veins or not. It still recognizes you as my successor; this ritual also marked you for tutelage until nineteen. You would do well to recall if you leave, you break tutelage."

Kaltag pursed his lips and crossly retorted, "Then I am no longer considered your heir."

"YOU WILL _ALWAYS,"_ Spiridon composed himself for a moment, needlessly adjusting his tie. His tone was bordering on frightful, and his dark eyes were too intense to hold a gaze. "Be my heir. Bear in mind this custom was not to be taken lightly. The Blood Heir ritual is the ultimate confirmation of love."

Kaltag rolled his eyes. "Save the pomp and circumstance for someone who gives a shit." His irritation rose once more, even in the exasperated face of the General. "Let it go, old man. Let _me_ go. Come July 31st, I'll be of age by human law. So whether it's now or then, I _am_ leaving your house."

"You are a target of both wars. Voldemort wants you for his side or dead—he doesn't particularly care which—now more than ever, and Mystikos still thinks you're his son. You'd be foolish to leave my protection."

The redhead narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms and sneered, "You don't really think you can stop me?"

He suddenly found himself nose to nose, staring into determined blue eyes. "I can, I am, or I _will_ find a way." The man hissed sternly. "You do not understand how much danger you are in, not just from those men, but yourself: or do you forget what resides in your head?" Kaltag shifted uncomfortably at the reminder. "You don't have the tools — let alone the experience to prepare yourself for such a task. I don't think you quite comprehend the caliber of the situation. The struggles, the demands it calls for. The responsibilities. You're a kid: you're not ready for this."

Kaltagonus knew precisely to what he was referring to. It had nothing to do with him staying, but was an attack on his maturity, and furthermore, his stability. His prowess to be successful: to be king. Feeling rather petulant, he thinned his eyes into slits. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

Spiridon snorted derisively, glancing into a caked mug. "I doubt that. How can you win the battle of Olympos' future if you cannot win the battle within yourself? You are a child. What do you know about war?"

The impetuous prefect felt himself bristle. Before he could stop himself, he spat out, "A lot more than you know about fatherhood."

_Ooh! _That_ certainly struck a nerve._

As soon as the words were spoken, Kaltag realized he'd gone too far. Spiridon closed off completely, his eyes cold and his face severe. In a flash, the boy's arms were seized by his hands and his wide eyes sought his in their close proximity.

The startled expression turned into one of molten fury, and his eyes reflected as much as his mind was fogged and tugged in different directions. Spiridon stared hard, stared deep into those orbs, as violent as the ocean during a tempest. But they weren't his normal azure.

They were fierce golden orange.

The fire in the grate grew, dancing across the very ceiling, licking at the pictures propped on the mantel. They were suddenly in an inferno, both their lips pressed tightly, forcing the beads of sweat boil on their skin. Kaltag's eyes were violently gold, whitening with each second the man _dared_ to lay a hand on him. If anyone were to enter, they would've feared to look upon his face, a sight so terrible to behold.

But Spiridon didn't flinch.

Years of practiced peace held him back from raising his hand to the boy. But he needn't have tried. The boy couldn't affect him, not that he knew that. Curbing the impulse to shudder in the furnace, Spiridon held his son's turbulent gaze. "_Peace_, Kaltagonus."

It took a few moments, but the thin haze began to clear, and the temperature slowly climbed down to normal. Released from his hold, Kaltag stumbled back into a table and didn't look at his father for quite a while. He hastily wiped the sweat from his eyes, the stinging in his hand reminding him of Argentum's wound and the gleaming silver cuff cutting into his wrist.

Dangerous. He was dangerous. Deadly, even. He couldn't — _wouldn't_ stay here. Not with — not while... He swallowed, but his throat supplied nothing but dryness.

Several tense moments later, Spiridon broke the overwrought silence. "Kaltagonus, please. I cannot allow you to — " He broke off with a sigh, pulling the sticky shirt from his chest. "I must look after you. It's my duty."

The teenager grumpily shook his head, leaning on a side table, facing away. "I don't need your protection, and I certainly don't want it."

Anyone who knew Spiridon Smythe knew it took a lot to shock the General. Even more to scare him. And it was common knowledge there were only three things that could ever garner either response from him.

And one of those reasons was standing right in front of him.

Weary eyes now broadened in alarm, and the General froze. He knew what was coming next. He only had a small window of opportunity in which to stop it. "Kaltagonus," he whispered almost desperately, "You can't — but — please, you cannot — "

Spiridon Smythe _never_ stuttered.

"Are you . . . are you _refusing_ my protection? Your name? Your . . . your own blood?" He paused to collect himself, scratching his bristles anxiously.

Spiridon Smythe was _never_ anxious.

"You know the consequence that carries with it?"

The teenager faced him angrily, opened his mouth to rashly reply, but clamped it shut. Did he know of the consequence? Yes, he did. Did he mind? Of course he did. He knew his proposal was a severe one, harsh, in fact. He was aware of what the implication could cause, and how much danger he could be in if he accepted.

Was he ready for all of that?

Was he ready at all, ready to defend himself if need be, to _control_ himself when the time came? To be honest with himself, Kaltag knew he would be safer here. There was no doubting that. The Blood Heir ritual established a protection so great it rivaled that of even the magical world. It made the participants feel emotionally lighter, less burdened knowing no immediate harm could befall them. There were no worries, no doubts, no lingering qualms of treachery.

But the simple fact was he was lied to, hidden from the truth, wiped of his memories for what they say was their — _his_ own good, but . . . Kaltag sighed. It stung. It really hurt him, knowing his father — who tortured him with paperwork every school year and summer, and shaped him into being a ruthless gentleman, betrayed him. Someone he trusted. Someone he, albeit grudgingly, looked up to. Someone he . . . he swallowed again, rewarded with dryness.

Someone he loved.

As he grew hot around the collar and the heat nipped at his eyes, Kaltagonus balled his fists and raised his chin. Spiridon's eyes widened fractionally, realizing what was coming and powerless to stop it. The creature stirred within the Being's mind, spurring him on.

One icy word was all it took. "Yes."

He felt the effects at once. An all around unpleasant tingle swept over his body, like ants crawling on his skin. He fought the urge to scratch and claw at himself, but the feeling soon disappeared. The light feeling was snatched viciously out from under him and all that was left was a heavy, permanent sensation. It was burdened and oppressing, making him distinctly aware that he was not welcome. When the weighty sensation didn't leave, he assumed he would feel like that for the rest of his stay here, which, he earnestly hoped, wasn't long.

Chancing a glance at Spiridon, he knew he'd see cold fury there. He wasn't disappointed. The man looked as though he were barely restraining himself from wringing his neck. With a profound sigh, he began to speak with a distantly cool indifference Kaltagonus only ever heard him use when calmly informed corporate contenders that he'd bought out their business.

"You, Kaltagonus Lucien Smythe, have relinquished my blood protection and all that it affords. This greatly dishonors me." Kaltag couldn't keep the doubt off of his features. "By all rights, as master of the wards, I would have you vacate the grounds on which you have trespassed to no further shame me with your presence." The younger Being bit his lip and forced his chin to stay in the air and not stare at his shoes as he so desperately wished to do.

"However," this caused the boy to sharply glance at his father, "Since you are still not of age by the Authority of Celestiality of Olympos, I, Spiridon Smythe, being your former guardian, will seek another guardian, the equivalent of me and nothing less, to resume your protection. I do this of my own accord." The beast bridled within him as Spiridon's daring gaze met his own. "Until such guardian is sought, you are to remain in the company of a Kept dweller outside of the premises until such a suitable protector can be found, as only mere proximity gives you a trace of protection as of now. Do you understand these terms?"

Kaltagonus scowled, startled when a flash of gold momentarily blurred his sight.

Spiridon brusquely nodded. "Very well." He paused after a moment, collecting himself and added as an afterthought, "That was a very stupid thing to do, Kaltagonus," in his best reprimanding tone.

The ginger-haired prefect merely shrugged, his stiff shoulders giving away his apprehension. "Call it what you will."

Spiridon's eyes narrowed. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"Oh, I get it just fine."

The black-haired Being opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted as a figure burst through the door. "Sir! Sir! I've just been alerted that the wards have—oh," Daedelus spotted the annoyed expressions on the pair's faces. "I see." He primly folded his hands and darted his eyes to the redhead.

With a cleared throat, Spiridon squared his jaw, biting out, "Was there something you needed, Daedelus?"

Glancing out of the corner of his eye to the piqued redhead, Daedelus reported, "My apologies, sir. I was just notified that the wards on Themys have been compromised. They've spread the protection farther over everyone in the house, except someone's missing." He eyed the put out expression of the youngest Being. "Three guesses as to whom. I'll just be..." He gestured to the door and backed away, cowed by the intensity of their glares.

"Don't bother, Daedelus." Kaltag spoke up. "I was just leaving."

"Kaltagonus — " But he had already strode out the door.

Daedelus stared after the boy for a split second before he turned his irritated gaze on his General. "What've you done to him now?" Spiridon only glowered and they both followed the redhead into the foyer.

"I hope you realize what you've done."

"Likewise." The boy growled over his shoulder as he began to climb the steps.

Scrubbing his face in frustration Spiridon's eyes gleamed at the young Celestial's back. "Kaltagonus." The boy paused, his back stiff and face turned away. Spiridon threw his hands in the air to slap loudly on his thighs. It was — amazingly — as close a sign of defeat he would ever acknowledge. "What—what do you want from me? An apology? I-I can't do that. I thought—"

"You thought what?" The boy furiously spun around and snarled. "You thought about how this would affect you? Your precious marriage? What, the monarchy and Olympos?"

The General was unable to keep the puzzlement off his face. "Young one—"

"Don't you understand," He loudly interrupted, "how much this _hurts_? How much pain you've caused me?"

Spiridon pursed his lips. "It was for the best."

Kaltag released a high, mirthless laugh, clenching his fingers into shaky fists. "It's always for the best, isn't it? Because it's never for what matters." At last, Spiridon seemed at a loss for words. Daedelus watched the exchange with interest and a great wave of sympathy rushed through him.

"I've thought of everything to make this better," the General quietly began, "but my mind keeps coming back to the same solution. If there were any other way—"

"Any other way would've been the right way!"

"I did everything I could!" Spiridon snarled.

The young Being harshly chuckled and shook his head, his eyes bright and distraught. "Thought of everything, have you?" He viciously spat. "Well, I can tell you what you _didn't_ think about. Me."

Twisting on his heel, the young Being took the stairs two at a time. "Kaltagonus!" The boy stumbled, but continued upward until he reached the second level and turned out of sight. They briefly heard the slam of a door in the distance, followed by dead silence.

Daedelus immediately moved to climb the steps after the distraught teen, but was stopped cold by a frosty voice. "Stop at once, that's an order. If you coddle that boy," the elder Celestial's tone held deep threat, "I will not have qualms dismissing you from the Battalion. Too long have you pushed him against me, Diomedes, and you think I do not know, but I do."

The dark-eyed soldier turned half of his body to face the staid-faced General with a dark look. Pursing his lips, he turned again to start back up the stairs, orders be damned. "One more step and you're discharged, Vice Admiral. And I seriously mean that. He is not yours to deal with."

There was a long, taut pause before the second-in-command descended with an enraged glare. "What have you done to the boy?"

"Our business is no right of yours!" Spiridon stormed back to his office only to be zealously pursued by Daedelus.

"Well _forgive_ _me_ sir, but I _made_ it my right when I swore an oath to take care of this family." He snapped the door shut as his superior strode to the bookshelf. He curiously watched as Spiridon plucked out a small book — fused with other books, which were curiously hollowed out. An alcove, Daedelus concluded with mild shock.

Spiridon pulled out a glass tumbler and a crystal decanter of deep tawny liquid — the sickly sweet scent revealed it to be _Metaxa, _sweet brandy — pouring it swiftly without offering any. Daedelus knew things had to have been worse than he imagined if the General was drinking spirits stronger than his usual _Retsina_ or red wine . . . especially drinking _brandy_ in the wrong glassware.

Fortifying himself from the sight, Daedelus eyed the man who avoided his gaze. "I've watched that boy, Spiridon, since he was a newborn, and I've seen what he's grown to become. Year after year, I see how he acts and how he feels about all of this. I daresay I can read him better than you. You _ruined_ that boy with your callousness, and you only have yourself to blame." This earned him a snort and a deep gulp of brandy from the General.

"A boy should not be treated like some-some . . . _object_ to be molded and shaped and bent to your will — a pawn in your quarrel with the High Being — forced to spend his only time of freedom in boring corporate offices discussing mergers and the endeavors of greedy humans with far too much money!"

Spiridon stared into his half empty tumbler, swirling the liquid with a quirked jaw. When he spoke, Daedelus had to strain to hear him. "Was it wrong of me? To . . . deny him a terrible fate? I . . . gave him a future. I am making him into the man he needs to be, complete with the discipline he lacks. I did what was right for him."

Daedelus scoffed, gritting his teeth. "'Right'? So, making him into another you — ruthless and heartless to practically everything that lives — that was _right?_ Athena would hate you for what you've done to that child!"

The rage in Spiridon's eyes intensified. "Watch yourself, Vice Admiral." He gave his second a threatening glare. "Know this: You have _no_ right to interfere with what I say to or do with Kaltagonus, oath-held guardian or no. Let it be."

The aide stood his ground, albeit anxiously. "I will not." Spiridon's face twisted into a scowl.

"I order you."

Daedelus barely hesitated. "And I refuse to comply."

"HE ISN'T YOUR SON!"

"NOR IS HE _YOURS!"_

If looks could kill, Daedelus Diomedes would've already joined his ancestors six feet under. As it was, the leader of the fiercest troop on Olympus held his glare for several moments until the younger acquiesced, looking away and acknowledging his submission. He heard the clinking of glass and a rich pouring sound.

"You try my patience today, Diomedes. And I have none left. You forget your place; you are not that troublemaking street urchin I rescued all those centuries ago." Daedelus fought the urge to flush in embarrassment. "You are a soldier of Zeus, a man of discipline. When emotions arise, soldiers _never_ forget their place, Vice Admiral, or they will be found guilty and sentenced to death." Daedelus did not reply, and kept his eyes averted. "But I have no desire to charge and slay you tonight, my second. However, in no way will you _ever_ disrespect me again or you may — or may not — live to regret it."

Properly chastised, Daedelus nodded but shook out of his stupor to tamely answer, "Yes, sir."

"See to it that you never challenge my authority again." The olive-skinned aide obeyed and averted his eyes to the elaborate carpet, baring his compliance. A few moments of deadly silence passed between the two, where the fire crackled and the glass of brandy clinked as it was topped off. He would give the General a few minutes of thought, if only to spare him the loss of his head. "Daedelus?"

His head quickly shot up. "Yes, sir?"

Spiridon's dark eyes glowed worryingly in the flame light. "Get me Gene right away."

It took a few seconds as the name passed through his inventory of thoughts. The second's eyes broadened. "Gene, sir? As in Commander Eugene Dyson?"

"Do you know of any other 'Gene', Vice Admiral?" Came the deadpanned response.

"As in . . . the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare of Greece? _That_ Eugene Dyson?"

"Yes." Spiridon hissed, swallowing a fair amount of drink.

Daedelus' mouth worked in bemusement as his mind couldn't quite catch up. "Sir, what are you going to do? By all rights, it sounds as if you're . . . . " He trailed off, seriously hoping the brandy wasn't skewing the Being's mentality.

The elder man nodded. "Yes, it's just as you fear. I'm giving Kaltagonus what he wants."

"But sir! With all due respect, I do not think — "

"I didn't ask you for your opinion, Vice Admiral. Know your place!"

Daedelus yielded an "I apologize," but had Spiridon looked him in the eyes, he would've found the boldest defiance.

A distressing sigh brought his attention to the unkempt Being. "Forgive me."

"No, you're right, General. I went too far. I nosed where I shouldn't have."

"That's right. You did. I am a merciful leader, but boy," Daedelus inwardly balked at the offensive scolding, "You are pushing your luck. That's strike two, Diomedes." Said Being sealed his lips and frowned at the rug. "But I understand why. You love Kaltagonus as I love him." Daedelus looked away. "We both want what's best for him."

After holding his peace for so long, the Vice Admiral met his leader's steady gaze. "So you're just . . . giving him away? Letting him out for adoption or emancipation? Is that what's best for him, throwing him into another family?"

There was a secretive smirk etched on the General's face as he pressed the full tumbler to his lips. Sometime between the last argument and now he'd topped it off again. "I never said he was going to another family."

"Who then?" After a beat, he thought to add, "Sir?"

It was then Daedelus Diomedes witnessed the most bone-chilling gleam in Spiridon's eyes. One that made the casual observer realize he had taken a step over the line of sanity and rationality and was now beyond clinically insane. The aide's face dropped. He was quite sure his jaw was dragging on the ground.

"_Oh_. Oh, _no._" Daedelus' eyes widened in realization and he squared his shoulders. Exactly how much did he have to drink? "General, I believe I must protest."

"I don't give a damn what you believe you must do Daedelus, _know … your … place!_" the man snarled, squeezing the glass in his hand so hard Daedelus thought he heard it squeak in alarm. The General's eyes flashed in anger and annoyance before he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Daedelus knew Spiridon was trying to clear his mind and calm himself, ready to make a rational excuse; he'd been on the receiving end of that expression many a time since boyhood. "I must do what is right by him."

Though not entirely convinced, Daedelus settled somewhat at the brief excuse following the order. Rather warily, the younger Celestial quietly broached, "You really think he'll be able to help him?"

A single nod. "I do."

Daedelus tried to keep himself from throwing a fit and groaned aloud instead. "Kal-Kaltagonus _hates_ him! They'll never get along! There won't be a house left after the week's up, 'cause they'll have blown it up! I'm telling you, they will not stand for it."

"They'll have to." Spiridon sipped leisurely as if this was all very amusing.

Daedelus ran a hand through his hair, incredulous. "But if he finds out…"

Spiridon grimaced and shrugged. "He'll be devastated, that's for sure."

Daedelus tossed him a wry look. "Which one?" Spiridon returned the look with a raised eyebrow.

"It's up to him whether he tells Kaltagonus or not."

They paused for a moment, thoughts wild and fleeting. "What will Kaltagonus think?"

The Smythe patriarch made a noise similar to a wince. "He'll get over it." When Daedelus made a sound of protest, Spiridon defended, "Kaltagonus will not find his way out of this. He must face this, and me, sooner or later."

"Hmph. What will the _other_ Kaltagonus think?"

The triplets' father paused for a substantial amount of time. "I'm not so sure I would like to know."

Daedelus openly gawped. "You're willingly putting them in danger? Have you lost your mind?"

Spiridon snorted and sipped steadily from his glass. "The only danger there will be is to themselves. And _that_, I cannot control."

The second nodded at the logic. There would be one hell of a fireworks display when they found out. "And how will this benefit Kaltagonus, sir?"

Spiridon's eyes hardened from their amusement and he gripped the glass so tightly between his fingers, Daedelus was afraid it would break. "He will learn control. And he'll be in for a _rude_ awakening." He glanced at his uncertain second-in-command. "I know what I'm doing, Daedelus. It needs to be done. It'll be better for both of them in the long run."

Daedelus' frown lessened, only slightly, but he nodded. "I don't doubt your decisions, sir."

"You had better not, soldier." Warned Spiridon, who again sighed and marched to his desk. "Contact Gene, Daedelus."

Instantly in assistant mode, Daedelus bowed slightly and made for the exit. "Right away, sir."

"And Daedelus?"

"Sir?" The Vice Admiral paused in the doorway.

Spiridon stared into his glass with a frown. "Have Gene get in touch with our emissary at the Ministry." Daedelus' eyebrows lowered slightly at the demand. He got the distinct impression they'd done this before.

"Which one, sir?"

Spiridon's eyes briefly rose from his tumbler in slight puzzlement. "We have more than one?"

The younger Being nodded slowly. "Phillips in Magical Creatures, Dram and Cohn in Law Enforcement, and Baptiste in the International Office of Law."

The dark-haired General pursed his lips in thought before answering, "Baptiste. And Daedelus?" The man in question looked over his shoulder as Spiridon called him back. "I shouldn't have to tell you that these requests must be fulfilled at the utmost discretion." The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with warning.

Daedelus swallowed thickly. "Of course, General."

Spiridon's dark gaze gleamed in the firelight. "Good. Dismissed."

Daedelus bowed again and crossed the threshold, murmuring, "And for your sake, I hope you know what you're doing."

As the doors clicked, Spiridon set down his tumbler and leaned on his desk. It had been a trying day. Really, a trying week. He wasn't sure when was the last time he ate a proper meal; he grunted at the sight of the sour bowl of soup on his table. He'd been surviving off of coffee all week, going over his reasons for what he had done all those years ago.

It had to be done. He knew it had to be done. Otherwise, Lily Potter would have told anyone who would listen the truth and there would have been an inquiry, and he didn't need that. No one could know his part in this. Not even Kaltagonus himself. He didn't need the boy to fear and hate him any more, especially with his new . . . concern (that was a mild way of describing a cold-blooded murderer). Emptying his glass in one gulp, Spiridon fought the urge to smash it against the wall. Yanking his chair out instead, the General sank like a rock into it, brow furrowed and fingers cupping his chin in thought.

Was he doing the right thing? Letting the boy go? Even he believed himself a bit demented to think this. He never indulged his children in what they wanted, but what they needed. He could still recall the pouts on their young, puffy faces when he'd turn them down for a toy, or a trip, or money, or a car, and how he'd remind them of those less fortunate than them that were perfectly happy with what they had, because they were thankful for life. That alone would straighten out their bitter moods and the yearned item was forgotten, replaced with something bigger and more modern as the years sped past. He remembered every request Nikola and Starbuck had made over the years.

But not Kaltag. Never Kaltag. He thought it was peculiar that the boy never asked for anything, never pouted at not getting a particular object. In fact, that only thing he remembered him ever asking him for repeatedly was...

Spiridon sighed, fingering the rim of his glass. It wouldn't do to dwell on memories passed; it was how he got into this mess in the first place. Shifting the tumbler aside, he reached over his desk, littered with ink-stained papers flat and balled, soiled cups of tea and coffee and grabbed the picture frame situated near the edge.

The firelight flickered over the silver and glass, illumining those beaming faces, rolling in the yard at the blithe age of eight. Easier times, he mused to himself.

But now was not the time to dwell on memories. He'd had enough of that last week.

Quickly flipping over the frame, he popped the hooks out and pulled the stand to reveal the picture's watermark and a discolored brass key.

With the key in hand, he moved it to the largest drawer at the bottom of his desk and hesitated for a moment before fumbling with the key in the lock. Another pause to collect himself, and Spiridon turned the lock until it clicked and pulled out the drawer.

The first thing that greeted his sight was a long, slender rod, the blackest of blacks, and he knew if touched, it would have been warm under his fingers. Having been inactive for over a decade, of course the wand was ecstatic to be used again. But this was no wand borne of wizard; rather thick at the base, and narrowed at the tip, much heavier and longer than wizards' wands at twenty or more inches. He thought he heard it purr and grow hotter as his fingers hovered over it.

It was made of a dark, heavy metal that could have caused massive destruction when waved. A Celestial wand in the hands of an ordinary person would cause unthinkable damage. Only three of these wands were known in circulation: Hermes, Circe the witch goddess, and his wife, Athena.

Only five other people knew of this particular possession; one was already dead. Spiridon took comfort in the fact of knowing he had nothing to do with her death, at least. The other, he hoped, would heed his warning and keep his mouth shut. Harry Potter was a nice boy, yes, but when rubbed the wrong way, the boy was a nuisance. Sighing heavily, Spiridon pushed thoughts of Potters dead and annoying out of his mind. Budging the pulsing weapon aside (it hissed in displeasure), his eyes caught something that had him choking back the sudden lump in his throat.

Spiridon's fingers wavered at the sight of the aged wood of the carved form, worn from its number of years in this place. The color had long since faded, leaving only the basal oak visible. He ran his fingers briefly over the chiseled mane, that one touch bringing a sharp pang of grief and pain if only for a second. He allowed himself a nostalgic chuckle at the rounded edge of the missing limb of the animal, broken in rough play so many years ago: centuries — rather, millennia ago, its dulled limb round from sleepless nights from nightmares were he caressed the toy in remembrance. He sighed, bypassing the broken goat in kind and swell of emotion only to pause.

A rush of hate flowed through him at the sight of the broken hilt, rusted over with years of disuse. Though the hilt was tarnished, its dreadful emblem still glared back at him, bright with wickedness. He almost reached for his tumbler of brandy again. Still, he did not know why he kept this—this stained weapon of sin, of murder and hatred and misunderstanding, especially when its mark was that of the man who killed his first wife and child. Saving his bitterness and anguish for a more fitting time, Spiridon finally seized what he'd come for.

It was nothing particularly impressive: naught but a simple graying, dusty sack. Truth be told, the pouch had more dust on it than Floo powder in it. Without allowing the chance to talk his pleasantly fogged mind out of his plans, the General abruptly stood and made it to the fireplace in four long strides. He scrabbled with the tie on the small bag, biting his lip to keep from cursing and changing his mind. His mind was made up, really, he kept telling himself. _Really_.

The magnate swallowed deeply, staring into the flames and ignoring the vying inward scolds of cowardice and self-indulgence. Glancing up at the ceiling, he closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer for guidance. _It has to be done,_ he inwardly chanted; _it _must_ be done._

Pinching the last bit of Floo powder left, he pitched it into the fire. As soon as the flames burst unnaturally green, Spiridon took a fortifying breath to dispense with all last-minute second thoughts. He'd spent nearly two minutes in front of the emerald flames, weighing his options. In the end, one voice was the loudest of them all.

_"Thought of everything, have you? Well, I can tell you what you __**didn't**__ think about. __**Me**__."_

Nodding firmly to himself, Spiridon stood straight, neatly adjusted his tie, and shouted directly into the fire, "Hogwarts School, Severus Snape's Private Quarters!"

**oooooooooo**

* * *

**A/N**: HPDH is right around the corner! Excuse me while I do my little dance. (happy dances) Thanks for reading! 

**A/N 2:** (1) is a quote from Chief Seattle. An _ephebos/ephebos/ephebe_ (pl. epheboi) is a male youth in ancient Greece between the ages of 18 and 20: usually to undergo military training. _Polis_ is a Greek city-state, for those of you who didn't know.


	2. 2: Mirror, Mirror, Pt I

**The Best Intentions**

**Disclaimer:** Whatever you've never heard of belongs to me. As for all else . . . one can only make empty wishes . . . .

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_Am I? – Inward thoughts._

**_Kill it._**_ – Golradir thought-speech._

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**Warning**: Again, I remind you this _is not_ a **Harry Potter-centric** story.

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**Two** Mirror, Mirror, Part I

He dashed up the stairs and stormed through the corridor desperately trying to put distance between himself and the scheming bastard on the ground floor. Kaltag made his way to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. A sudden feeling of hollow exhaustion came over him and he slumped against the wood, hot around the collar, his breathing shallow and his hands shaking.

_Damn_ him. Damn him for thwarting him! Damn him for being right! Damn him for caring! Kaltag suddenly banged his fists furiously on the floor when he felt his eyes hot and stinging.

**_God. Spare me. Seriously._**

Kaltag flinched at the drawl and let his head fall into his hands, a shuddering breath escaping him. Damn it: why did he still feel like this after all Spiridon had done? It was always the same: he'd get into an argument with the General over something trivial—grades, business, cars, etc.—and he'd feel like he'd had the upper hand in the argument.

For all intents and purposes, he could have been the right one in the row, but then _he'd_ turn the tables. Then Kaltag would be reminded he was very much the uncertain teenager he was and he'd storm off, angry that Spiridon had done him in once again. It was different this time, much different. This wasn't some petty squabble: Spiridon's crimes were inexcusable and horrendous.

So why, then, did he feel like this? Why, after everything the self-satisfied villain had caused, did Kaltagonus feel like the bad guy? Why did he feel like he was in the wrong? Why did he feel like he'd just let down Spiridon, a person he shouldn't even care about disappointing anymore? With a rough grunt, Kaltag pounded on the back of his door with his fists.

_"Damn it!"_

**_Well! If I'd known I'd be possessing a certified tantrum-thrower…_**

Kaltag gritted his teeth and clawed at his ears, crossing the room to flop onto the bed. That voice; that _damned_ voice was back, soft and breathy but sharp like a razor. He thought he'd gotten rid of it already, he thought it was finally over but he could still hear him, hear him whispering, plotting, snickering, in the shady depths of his mind.

**_You got lucky the first time. Next time, however..._**

The redhead sighed unevenly, reflexively rubbing the skin behind his ears red. Every instinct was telling him to ignore it, let it go away on its own, think on something else, seethe a little more at Spiridon's audacity, but he could not—would not—as his mind kept coming back to _him_.

**_Yes, 'me', and it's about time you got that right, you crybaby._ **The tetchy tone sneered.

"Shut up"Kaltag throatily snapped

**_Why, are you going to cry to daddy if I don't?_**

_"Shut up."_ The Being stated more forcefully, his nails digging painfully into the pillow beneath his face.

**_What will you do if I don't? Kill me like you did the others?_**

A brief flash of pain stole over the blue-eyed Being, visions of bright lights and streaks of red flitting across his mind before he quietly ground out, "I didn't—"

**_You did!_** Kaltag cringed at the brief pang and sudden heat that flared on his lower back. **_You filthy beast—_**

"No—"

**_You killed and you tortured and you _liked_ it—_**

"I never—"

**_Who poisoned the vampire with their blood? Who rent the Masked Ones' heads from their shoulders?_**

Image after image of that night in the Dark Forest brought themselves unbidden to the forefront of his mind, drowning out his protests, bringing strength to the harsh voice. Roughly shaking his head, Kaltag clutched his pillow, wet from the sweat of his palms and declared, "That—it wasn't me, I ne—"

**_Shut up! _You_ tormented innocents and spilled their blood. You couldn't wait for a taste of flesh, of death—_**

"NO!"

**_You brought me to life, stole my power, used it as you selfishly saw fit and have the brazen audacity, you worthless runt, to turn against me! _Me!**

Kaltag's back arched as unbearable heat seared and shot up his spine, making him twist violently in his sheets.

**_If it wasn't for me, you'd be _dead!_ You weak, silly, pathetic little boy!_**

"SHUT UP!"

He could feel the soft linen of his pillowcase stretch taut beneath his hands before the harsh sound of tearing reached his ears, well before the explosion of feathers took place. Blinking as the blizzard of white feathers began to clear, Kaltag scowled, tossing what was left of his limp pillow to the floor. He'd had enough of this.

**_Already? And here I thought you had a little bit of fight left in you._**

He clambered out of the bed, his hands waving the floating feathers out of his path, frown in place and mind resolute. He wasn't going to live like this, not for another minute. The redhead pat his pockets down and cursed to himself as he realized he'd packed his wand away sometime during the flight from Hogwarts.

**_Someone alert the village: their idiot's been found._**

"I think they lost you for a reason." He hoarsely snarled, shoving a pile of feathers out of his way.

**_Ooh! Them's fightin' words._**

Kaltag ignored the taunt and quickly made his way to the dark trunk no doubt Eomel had brought up. He pushed aside the stacks of neatly folded clothing and books, searching for the slender piece of wood.

**_You think that'll really help you?_** The voice scoffed and Kaltag tried his best to suppress the strong urge to flinch. **_It'll only work so many times. The more you resist, the more powerful I get._**

Kaltag gritted his teeth against the white-hot flash of heat up his spine and the painful leap by his heart in his chest. He yelped in surprise, steadying himself with one hand on the edge of his wardrobe and the other rubbing the tender skin on his back, bringing a hiss to his lips, as his knees buckled.

**_Pathetic._**

However, Kaltagonus hadn't heard the beast's latest gibe.

**_You want to see a real beast? Look in the mirror._**

His brow furrowed as the pads of his fingers ran along the skin of his back, coasting and dipping over raised skin. Funny; he hadn't recalled tending to any wounds there before. It had only started feeling sore last week, but he'd seen nothing but a patch of red skin when he twisted to look at himself in the mirror. Now, it was swollen, but it felt absolutely nothing like a welt. Kaltag curiously traced his forefinger along the weal-like swelling. Definitely not a bruise, as his fingers charted a pattern flaring out to his hip.

Brow lowered, Kaltag let the rest of his fingers walk around the sore skin before his eyes widened. Quickly, he hitched up his jumper and made an amusing sight, stumbling around in circles as he tried to look at his back. His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets when he saw a wavy line, glaring black in contrast to his pale skin, curved around his waist.

Panic surged through him and he soon found himself staring at his wide-eyed, washed out, green-tinged reflection. Swallowing thickly, Kaltag whirled around and bunched his jumper up, anxiously glancing over his shoulder. He goggled.

"Oh, my _God…._"

There, emblazoned across the small of his back—and disappearing beneath his waistband—was, quite simply, a tattoo. A tattoo he certainly didn't remember getting. From the looks of things, it was some type of bird in flight done in black. Kaltag swallowed nervously; when had _that_ happened?

He tried to scowl as a baleful chuckle echoed through his mind but could only pull off a wince. "What the hell is that? What did you do?" He sounded more shocked than seethed, he was displeased to note.

**_Why, every beast needs a brand, right?_**

It was difficult to quit gawping at the mark on his back. He swore that it warmed the longer he stared at it—he could have sworn his reflection shimmered—but Kaltag frowned at the Bellotaur's words and pulled his jersey down, hiding the unexplained mark from further inspection.

"I'm not a beast: you are. Get that straight." Kaltag hissed, turning away from the mirror and returning to his trunk. The continued search for his wand however couldn't quite keep him from wincing as his mind drifted off repeatedly to the new body art. "You had no right to do that."

**_Excuse me?_** The derisive tone was chillingly low; so much rage just boiling beneath those two words just waiting to explode. **_'No right'? I had no right? I had _every_ right._** Kaltag's hands tensed and shook around his copy of _Interpreting the Dream Realm_ as his chest tightened briefly.

"Oh?" The Being feebly replied, anxiously renewing his search for his wand. "And how do you figure that?"

**_It's _my_ body. I can do whatever I—_**

"That's where you're wrong. It's our—I mean, _my­_—"

**_NO! There is no 'us'! There is only me, and—unfortunately—you. But that will be amended in due time._**

His back gave a twinge in response as Kaltag breathed unsteadily through his lips. What on Earth possessed him to stow his wand away? And why couldn't he find it already?

**_Too long have I sat dormant in your body, a shadow of my glorious former self, watching, waiting in the depths to take over, only to be thwarted time and again by your stupidity and … look at me when I'm talking to you._**

The harsh, quiet command caused the Being's brow to furrow and he nearly dropped his mortar and pestle. There was a considerable silence that rang through the bedroom and his mind, causing the very hairs on the back of his neck to arise. A warning sting surfaced from the mark on his back and Kaltag doubled over his trunk, his Remedy supplies clattering to the floor and as his entire body went stiff with pain.

**_I said LOOK AT ME!_**

It felt as if a clawed hand had grabbed at the scruff of his neck and whipped him around, facing the mirror. At first glance, he thought he was watching his own reflection: pale and drawn, with beads of sweat pearling on his brow about his golden eyes. Again, his jaw dropped. Horrified, Kaltag realized he wasn't eyeing himself: instead, his reflection was staring back at him.

**_"Surprise!"_**

_Golradir_ sarcastically exclaimed, staring back at him.

Unlike Kaltag, his stance was slightly less stiff in the shoulders and his expression conveyed a deadly combination of boredom and impatience, as opposed to the redhead's alarm. Though he looked bored, there was no mistaking the gleam in his eyes, his body screaming readiness to pounce, to attack. Kaltag swallowed thickly as the golden-eyed beast glared back at him, lips pursed and expression murderous, gleaming eyes narrowed, all from his body. _His_ body. Fear gripped him as Golradir's mouth stretched into a knowing smirk, as if the beast knew what he was thinking. Probably did.

**_"Beast?"_** Came the mildly amused confirmation. **_"You want to see a real beast? Look inside yourself."_** Breathing hard through his nose, Kaltagonus immediately darted his gaze away, to his trunk, mere feet away, where his wand was. **_"Oh, you can look away all you want. But I'll always be there. You know I'm right there, _all_ the time, in your head. Just lurking under the surface … _always_ lurking under the surface._**

**_"So go ahead. Fool yourself into thinking you can wish me away," _**Kaltag curled his fingers into his fist, his eyes resting on his trunk. **_"Fool yourself into thinking you can always spell me away."_** If he could just make it to his trunk, it was just there, two feet away... **_"It's only a matter of time before you surrender to me, completely, wholly, utterly."_**

Kaltag's eyes involuntarily snapped back to the leering reflection as he heard this. "No."

**_"No?"_** the tone was laced with humor. **_"You know you're not nearly as strong as I."_**

The redhead's eyes narrowed, his annoyance rising through his trepidation. Cocksure of himself, Kaltagonus scoffed quietly, not minding the threatening sting of his tattoo and the sudden heat of the silver band round his wrist. "If I'm not as strong as you," He complacently began, "how come you've not fully taken over?"

Golradir's left eyebrow slid a fraction up his forehead, the only sign of his interest. Kaltag's lips pursed slightly as he daringly leaned forward, gripping the edge of his chest of drawers and staring the beast invading his body down. "Seems to me like you need me more than you let on," he whispered, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

**_"I need you?"_** He asked, though Kaltag noticed it was more of a mocking statement. Golradir sucked his teeth and grinned nastily. **_"I can have any host I want, from your pigheaded guard to the hot young thing with the big mouth. She'll do just lovely, won't she?"_**

"I doubt that," Kaltag boldly countered, fingers tightening on the edge of the wood at the mention of Nikola. "Admit it: you can't control me and that _kills_ you. Else, we wouldn't be here."

**_"There is no 'we!'"_** The doppelganger snarled, his eyes flashing red for the briefest second. Kaltag leapt back as Golradir prepped himself to ram through the mirror, stumbling head over heels on top of his trunk, knocking his belongings across the floor as he was suddenly compounded with shooting pain up his spine and the answering shock from his wrist cuff. **_"I will take over! It's only a matter of when!"_**

A yelp bubbled up in his throat as the mark burned on his back, the heat of a thousand fires, and the cuff in conjunction vibrated around his wrist angrily. **_"You think you're so special boy? You mongrel, you're nothing! You're NOTHING_ _without me!"_**

Kaltag turned watery eyes to the mirror to see Golradir's fists pounding on the other side, spittle flying from his lips and his eyes pulsing red with fury. Kaltag reflexively scuttled back, blue eyes wide and hands scrabbling through the contents of his trunk strewn behind him to put distance between himself and the enraged creature.

"You do. You need me," he feebly argued, his throat suddenly bone dry and tightening with each and every rave from Golradir.

**_"YOU BASTARD! YOU'RE WORTH SHIT WITHOUT ME! YOU'RE A NOBODY, A SNIVELING THIEF, IS ALL YOU ARE!"_**

His head was swimming with gold, his vision blurring and he dimly felt cold fingers groping at his throat. He'd felt this before, this stuffed feeling, the sensation of being forcibly shoved into a corner.

**_"YOU SEE? YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO TRY AND OVERTHROW _ME?_ SNOTTY LITTLE CRETIN!"_**

Kaltag could barely keep his eyes open, or his head up for that matter. It was just like in the forest: one minute there, the other, swathed in darkness, watching everything from a keyhole's point of view. His body went limp and his senses went haywire again: he could smell Erastus' feast from the kitchen, taste the disobedience of Daedelus in the air, and could feel the mounting tension and heat in the office below him.

_"Kaltag!"_

He could feel the cold grip of the beast pulling him under, plunging him in icy darkness, pinning him down to watch, as his wilting body readied to relinquish control to the Bellotaur.

**_"GIVE IT UP!"_**

_"Tag, open up!"_

**_"NOTHING WITHOUT ME!"_**

The Being could feel the cuff burning on his wrist, desperately trying to contain the beast, but it would be in vain if he couldn't get to his wand in time. His vision swam and everything was thrown into an amber tinted-world for the briefest of seconds before, "That's it! Nude or not, I'm coming through."

The beast was distracted long enough and the split second was all Kaltag needed. As the red-eyed creature turned in the mirror to seek out the disturbance, Kaltag regained control long enough to pull his wand out from under a pair of pants and point it at himself.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the Bellotaur's attention snap back to him, but his scream of fury was immediately eclipsed by Kaltag's gruff shout of, _"Evincio!"_

It was as if his insides were being swallowed by a large vacuum. His head felt as if it were filled with cotton and uncomfortably squeezed at the same time. The Being felt hollowed, empty, meaningless, but at least he was in control: for now.

He had barely set his wand down before his bedroom door burst open to admit a harassed-looking blonde, her chest heaving with breath and her brown eyes swirling with annoyance. She paused for a moment, briefly taking in the state of his room—or at least he storm of feathers her entrance swirled to life—and his pallor in bemusement before her irritation returned in full.

"Did you not hear me shouting down your door?" She huffed, her hands planting themselves firmly on her hips. "I almost didn't want to come in—God knows _what_ you're doing in here by yourself," she gave him a seedy glare, "but it couldn't wait. I need you."

She said the last words with quiet desperation and Kaltag almost thought he believed her. **_Worthless,_** the beast's words echoed in his mind, though it remained unpleasantly fogged. The redhead's vacant blue eyes glanced at the mirror—thankfully, it was empty—before they settled on Nikola's worried brown orbs.

She pursed her lips slightly and he could see faint color rise in her cheeks under his scrutiny.

"Theresaspidainmawoom."

He blinked sluggishly, his slick mind not catching a word of what she'd said. She rolled her eyes and huffed, a shade of pink mortification splashing across her face. "There's a spider in my room." She muttered slowly in response.

Kaltag blinked again, saying nothing. Immediately he found his bed invaded by the brown-eyed Entity as she made a noise of distress and flung herself into his sheets, creating a cloud of feathers and assailing a pillow. "Don't say it. Don't." She deadpanned, holding up a hand to forestall his no doubt sharp reply, though he remained silent. Her moan of embarrassment was muffled as her head was now buried in his pillow.

She whipped her head up, staring at him through a mess of blonde locks—feathers sticking out in every direction, looking for all the world like a giant chicken—sprawled over his trunk and things, and she must have mistaken his silence for shock and amusement, because she continued, whining, "I know what you're going to say: I'm quite possibly the strongest and fastest Entity in the school, and I'm brought down by a bug. But if you saw that—that … _monster_ playing house in the corner of my bedroom, you'd be having a nervous breakdown, too! It's the size of Medusa's head!"

Her tone was angry, accusing even, though he kept his mouth shut. Still, Kaltag said nothing, too pleased that his mind was now empty. It was too difficult to maintain ideas and thoughts when his mind was this relaxed; sometimes it seemed as if his brain was oil as everything was too slippery to grasp.

"Tag?" Nikola tentatively called out. His eyes automatically fixed on her, and he could very faintly hear her heart beating. "Well? Aren't you going to say something?" She incredulously prompted. "Yell at me for interrupting your … trunk spelunking?" She fished, her gaze racing over the mess he sat on.

Her brow furrowed as she scooped a handful of feathers and threw them into the air, watching them fall like downy snow. "And where'd all the feathers come from? Did Argentum explode or something? What were you doing anyway? I called you dozens of times. I hope you weren't doing what I think you were doing," she quickly added, sitting up rather abruptly and pulling a face.

"God, it hasn't been that long since you left Ella and you're already banging one out—I knew rooming with Starbuck would rot your brain. You've missed dinner and Erastus isn't pleased. And why are you still on the floor? You do know there's a perfectly sound bed here, or we could go to my room: I'm definitely not going back there until you've killed him. At least I think it's a him, he certainly was hairy. Maybe I could sleep here tonight! Though we'd have to do something about the mess. What pissed _you_ off? I've never known you to be a slob. My God, what's Starbuck done to you?"

"Nikola," he quietly broke her rambling, his voice gentle yet hesitant. It sounded foreign to him, but then again, everything about him seemed unfamiliar nowadays. Immediately, she quieted, brow arched toward her hairline, lips pinched, anxious, and fingers digging holes in his pillow. Kaltag sighed at the state of her, throwing a brief glance at the still vacant mirror as he scratched his neck and opened his mouth to speak.

"What's that?" her breathy voice inquired urgently. Her eyes glinted concern, but she wasn't looking at him. Kaltag's brow lowered when she leaned toward him, curious. "You're bleeding." He almost didn't slap her hand away in time as they swooped down to grab his own, the one covered in blood, both his and the Bellotaur's.

Quickly the redhead scrambled up from his slumped position, covering his flinch with a stretch. Of course, Nikola didn't look fooled for a second. Her gaze was piercing, questioning, as her eyes followed his progress of stuffing things back in his trunk. "What was—"

"It's nothing," he sharply replied, gathering his scattered clothing and tossing it back in his trunk. "Argentum scratched me, is all."

"So you _did_ blow him up," The blonde's brow furrowed suspiciously. "I thought I saw—"

"Don't worry about it," he hastily interrupted, sniffing, trying to shake the scent of roast and flowers from his mind. "I'll clean up in a minute." She didn't look pleased with his blatant evasion, but nodded nonetheless, handing him a pair of faded feather-flecked boxers. The silence hung between them awkwardly, almost ten shades past uncomfortable as Kaltag rummaged around the clutter to distract himself.

Nikola watched from the bed, throwing him nearby things when she could, but he could still feel the heavy weight of her gaze on him. The air crackled with her curiosity, it was so strong. She wasn't done with him; else she would have already left to badger Starbuck into slaying the subject of her distress. Then again, she never would have pressed him this much just to get rid of a spider.

After kicking a ball of socks his way, Nikola quietly spoke, "You never told me what happened."

Ah, finally they came to the heart of the matter. The redhead's nose wrinkled and he scratched at the muggy gauze on his neck, cramming his Defense books between his chitons. "Oh, this? Tripped over my trunk."

"And fried your owl into a pile of feathers in the process?" She raised her hand and dropped a handful of them, cocking her head with a wry grin. "I may be blonde, but I'm not stupid."

"I've no idea what you're going on about."

"I'm not leaving 'til I turn that frown upside down, mister." When he didn't answer, he heard the blonde issue a weary sigh. "Seems I've got my work cut out for me tonight."

He gave an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. "Nikola."

"Don't want to tell me? All right," she quickly said, sliding to the end of his bed and swinging her legs over edge, kicking up feathers. "You don't have to talk: we'll play Charades." He threw her an annoyed glare, but rather than quail, her face brightened with a smile. "Okay! Um … one word! Let's see, you're wound up, stiff; looks like you're thinking hard … I got it! Constipation?"

"Nikola!"

"Ooh," she recoiled, her forefinger being gnawed on between her teeth as she threw him a mockery of a rueful grin. "Wrong, wasn't it?"

"Get out."

"Kaltagonus!"

"Nik—"

"You've barely said two words to me all day," she burst out, all signs of her playfulness vanishing into thin air. "I haven't seen you all week, you were always hiding somewhere, not even your best friend knew where you were—and you two are practically inseparable—and worst of all, you haven't cursed about dad in a week, you're all broody and moody, you've apparently killed your owl," he rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. "I know something's wrong, but … but you're not telling me anything!"

Her last words were said in a pained whisper, her eyes swimming with hurt. He couldn't bear to hold her gaze and instead, stooped to fetch a stray pair of underpants thrown under the wardrobe. "Kaltagonus, please."

The note in her tone was pleading, earnest, but not demanding. She was definitely worried, and a bit scared, too, for her to beg him like this. He didn't know what possessed him to ever think he would be able to keep everything from her; he could never deceive those penetrating eyes. The Being felt a slight pang at the thought: often times when the roles were reversed, he'd be the one scowling at her to spill the truth. Their friends who bore witness to this time and again informed them that their faces were eerily identical during these times. Without a doubt brother and sister. Pfft.

Shoulders slumped and eyes hastily avoiding direct contact with the mirror, Kaltag confessed with a quiet voice. He could almost see the blonde sitting up straight, comically waiting with wide eyes, bated breath, and white feathers strewn in her hair pointing everywhere. He had to tell her the truth. "Fine. I got bit by one of the Lamia."

Well, he wasn't going to tell her _everything_.

As he could've predicted, she gasped, her hand covering her mouth and her eyes ridiculously large. She didn't cry, no, never, because she was first and foremost Nikola Smythe: daughter of Athena and the hardened General, granddaughter of wrathful Zeus and frosty Hera. Tears? The ducts probably dried up and disappeared the moment she left the womb.

"Don't." He darkly scowled, squeezing the spine of _Advanced Potion-Making._ "I don't want your pity."

A frown quickly befell her face and she briskly answered, "And you're not going to get it. It's just … disconcerting."

"Oh, of course," he dryly answered. "Because you're the one with two holes in your neck, naturally you'd feel disconcerted."

She chose to ignore his sarcasm. "They've sided with Voldemort?"

"Clearly."

Her eyes took on a calculating gleam as they studied the gauze bandage taped to his neck. "You aren't Marked, are you? Because—"

"I'm Cloaked," he drearily informed, worn sandal in one hand, a sheaf of notes in the other. He muttered, "Trust me: they wouldn't dream of looking for me."

"Are you in pain?"

"Do I sense pity?" He cynically raised, eyebrow sliding up his forehead disdainfully. Nikola's mouth quickly snapped shut and she looked away for a brief second—probably to hide her defiance, he mused—before turning guarded eyes in his direction.

"At least tell me you're all right." Came her soft demand.

All right? Far from it.

Kaltag paused, thoughts slowly coming back to him, though the beast's whispers didn't return. It might have been the spell or the constant heat of the silver cuff beneath his clothes keeping it at bay, but Kaltag certainly didn't want to investigate.

But after a pause, he quietly replied, "I'm fine."

The blonde's eyes narrowed apprehensively. "Promise?" She prompted.

Lowering the hand full of broken quills, Kaltag turned toward the somewhat uneasy Entity on his bed surrounded by downy chaos. As much as she tried to keep her reactions in check, Kaltag could still see the underlying distress that need to hear the truth from his own mouth in the depths of her eyes. For the first time that evening, a very small, yet genuine smile spread across his face.

Nodding, he answered, "I promise, Nike." He was sure this was what she wanted to hear, and then she'd agreeably take her leave, probably strong-arming Starbuck into destroying the pesky spider.

Instead, the girl merely kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes beneath his duvet, upsetting the feathers once more as she settled in for what appeared to be a long night. "No dice." She flippantly responded, crossing her arms beneath her head. "I'm not leaving 'til you _spill_."

God. He was never going to get rid of her now.

ooooo

"Be quick about it."

Spiridon blinked at the rude welcoming from the hook-nosed professor's head bobbing in the green flames of his fireplace. Snape looked particularly inhospitable, more so than usual, his scowl deep but the telltale wrinkle between his eyebrows spoke volumes.

"What's happened?" the General demanded, gripping the mantel as he bent closer to the cool flames.

The dark-haired wizard's frown deepened with disinclination before he answered, "There's been an attack on the Hogwarts Express."

Spiridon fell flustered for all of a second before a wave of sympathy overtook him. "Was anyone—"

"A number of students perished, yes."

"Voldemort?"

He resisted the urge to chide the potion master's death glare at the use of the dark lord's name. "Do not—"

"Was it?"

Snape's beetle-black eyes darkened, glittering with annoyance at being interrupted—a feat no one was thought to ever survive—but he answered nonetheless. He was, after all, pressed for time. "No. A student, marked." Spiridon thought he could detect a hint of disappointment in his tone. "The headmaster and McGonagall have already gone. The other heads of house are about to leave, so again: _be quick about it."_

"And Potter?" He gravely inquired, his hands tightening over the ledge. If something had happened to him…

Thankfully, Snape snorted and shook his head, sending embers flying onto the carpet. "It would indeed be miraculous if Potter survived the Dark Lord this many times only to be taken out by a post-pubescent psychopath."

His heart calmed a little, and he sighed in relief. Potter was safe. His oath to Lily was still kept. Though he was more worried about facing Kaltagonus with the adverse news than Lily Potter's ghost chasing after him for all eternity.

"I need a huge favor." Snape's eyes glinted with faint bemusement before falling unreadable once more at Spiridon's low tone. The Being steeled himself with a deep breath. "Sixteen years ago, I made you an offer to which you refused."

The wizard's eyes narrowed. "If you are—"

"Tonight, Kaltagonus has refused my blood protection."

"No."

"It's only temporary—"

"Forget it."

"At least until I find a loophole."

"I bid you good luck. Good night."

"Severus, please." If he was reduced to pleading, so be it. He didn't care anymore, so long as Kaltagonus had a safe haven … even if it wasn't his own. "I fear for Kaltag's safety following what happened in Hogsmeade on that dreadful night. Vol—the Dark Lord," he quickly amended, seeing Snape's face tighten in fury, "knows something, and I am afraid he will come after Kaltagonus to get it. To get to Potter." He added, hoping to appeal to Snape's innate response to assist the young wizard, no matter how much he despised him.

"What's Potter got to do with this?" He sneered unpleasantly.

"I cannot be sure," Spiridon whispered. "But something drew him to Kaltagonus that night, and now both he and Harry are in danger." It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the truth. It had to be done.

The professor's eyes grew dim. "After all these years, your trust in me is still insufficient."

"It is not a matter of trust, Severus," Spiridon replied, exasperated. "If I did not trust you, you would have never been made Lucien's godfather." He knew it was a blatant lure, using the boy's middle name to influence the sallow man, but he had to take that chance.

Unfortunately, Snape shot the opportunity down quickly. "Forgive me, but I missed the part where this was my problem."

The General's face contorted, darkening. "How dare you!" He raged at the man's indifference. "I guided you when your father turned his back on you! I brought you back to yourself when you would have let Voldemort use you for evil!"

"_Don't_ push me into a corner!" Snape roared, spraying ash and cinder all over the carpet and floor.

"I gave you something worth fighting for," Spiridon's irate tone rose to match his. "I never turned my back on you, so don't you _dare_ turn your back on that boy!"

Snape's eyes narrowed a fraction, his eyes glittering dark green and his lips thinning tightly at the General in defiance, in anger, for his outburst. Spiridon just stared at the sallow head bobbing in his fireplace, all manner of emotion welling up behind his jade-black eyes but his expression endlessly unreadable. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Spiridon shook his head and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Severus, I … I didn't mean to push you into a corner." The wizard's eyes glimmered in disbelief. "I…" Spiridon sighed again, his eyes falling to the picture on his desk. Softening his tone, he continued, more quietly, "I know he means more to you than that."

"Oh?" He stemmed the urge throw water in the cynical man's face. "So now you've been blessed with the ability of Clairvoyance? I'm quite sure Trelawney didn't See _this_ coming."

"Damn it, Severus!" He couldn't stop from banging his fists against the mantel in frustration. With a sharp sigh Spiridon dragged a hand through his hair and turned his back to the stoic professor, gripping the chair in front of him, to calm him. His hands still shook with rage and annoyance, but more so with disappointment at Snape's careless dismissal of Kaltagonus.

The General's eyes fell shut, a sign of surrender. "Don't do this." He could hardly believe that was his voice, mighty and authoritative General Spiridon, tone weedy and powerless in the face of a lesser power. Spiridon turned his head toward the fireplace, but didn't look at the floating head engulfed in emerald flames. "Don't do this to him. Please. I know you."

Snape said nothing, only tightening his lips. "I know you wouldn't be this bitter toward a child who, at one time, couldn't go to sleep without having your blanket in his sight, who would at times scream down the entire kingdom until he saw not me, not his mother, but you—"

"If you are trying to convince me," his silky tone drawled, "appealing to my sentiments, or rather, lack thereof, is going the entirely wrong way about it."

"But it's working regardless, isn't it?"

To that, Snape had no answer.

The office descended into silence but for the loud snapping of the fire, and each man fell to their personal thoughts. Severus' quiet was unnerving to the General. By now, he'd have either grudgingly accepted or lashed out in a whirlwind of snarls and jibes. But this … thoughtful Severus, the one he knew to be calculating, plotting … unsettled him. Spiridon was starting to rethink asking Snape to take his son away for the rest of the summer, and if that gleam meant anything, it meant his intentions were far from noble.

At last, after a pregnant pause, "Give me three days to contact the solicitor."

Spiridon blinked out of his thoughts, staring at Snape fully in his black eyes. "Of your residence at Spinner's End? So far away?"

"No." He shortly replied, saying nothing more. Spiridon didn't know whether to feel relieved or worried.

Snape didn't look too happy he thought, then again reading the man would take all of a century to figure out what he was really thinking. Doubts aside, the dark-haired Being gave the wizard a single nod, not orally expressing his gratitude to escape Snape's sharp tongue.

Straightening his stance, Spiridon curled his hands into fists, some semblance of getting the situation under control. "You can owl me later with the details. I've taken entirely too much of your time as it is; you've an emergency to attend to."

A curt nod came from the fireplace, sending embers onto the ledge and floor. As Snape turned to end the fire call, Spiridon called out, "And Severus?" Snape paused, scowl still in place. Spiridon's eyes darkened slightly, his expression turning the most serious than when they'd been chatting. "This is your last chance. Don't mess this up."

His best glare was conveyed through the flames before the potion master abruptly cut off their connection, throwing the General alone in darkness.

ooooo

He was slowly pressing the pads of his fingers to his temples, rolling them clockwise in an attempt to rub the sudden headache from his mind.

"…and he got all shirty with me when I made fun of him 'laying his towel' somewhere warmer, if you get my drift," he winced at the too sharp nudge to his ribs, "and he stalked off in the midst of dessert with an ugly look on his face. Maybe it was the chocolate all over his chin, but I laughed. Or, I dunno, he looked kind of constipated to me..."

He experimentally threw her an annoyed look as she slung her arm around his neck, dropping feathers in his lap. She batted her eyelashes undauntedly and hugged him, rambling on. No such luck.

Kaltag shrugged her arm off his shoulder only to feel her head drop firmly into his lap. He frowned, peering through half-lidded eyes at the blonde intruder only to be met with a winning smile. "Nope. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

He huffed through his lips and closed his eyes again, steadily rubbing his temples. The silver band vibrated on his wrist again; the one time he'd accept the beast's distraction, the coward had bowed out.

"You ever, I dunno … get that feeling in the pit of your stomach," Nikola soberly began, her brown eyes glimmering with curiosity as her hands plucked feathers from his jumper, "you know, when we make fun of him? Starbuck? And it makes you feel … awful, for all the hell we put him through? Do you ever feel bad?" Her eyes shined bright with reflection, brow contritely creased, and jaw pouting and grim as she awaited the redhead's response.

"Never."

"Yeah, me neither." She brightly returned. "So, Mykonos this summer: Endy and Selene are definitely in, and Isis is going to convince her parents. I told her to slip them sweet nectar during supper when she asks them—"

"Nikola."

"—so they'll be all wobbly and bugged and won't know what the hell's happening—"

_"Nikola."_

"—so they'd have no choice but to agree since they won't know what she's asked them, and when she comes back, she'd be covered if they get angry, just telling them they'd consented—"

_"Nik—o—la,"_ he ground out, shutting the blonde up. She perked in his lap, brown eyes staring up at him and her hand clutched on his buttons in some puppy-like semblance of adorable dim-wittedness, but he knew she knew exactly what she was up to. Kaltag idly shook his head, giving up on the headache. "What are you doing?"

"What?" She innocently replied, fingers curling around a loop of thread.

"This."

"De-feathering-your-jumper-this?"

"Nikola!"

"Dad told me to keep you company," She sat up and confessed, her eyes downcast and hair falling over her face as she idly twirled a snow white feather. She mumbled, "He was worried about you."

The Being scoffed, trying to shake her off. "Now I know you're lying."

"I am not," she insisted, though she still had an odd fascination with the goose down. "He said—"

"No, he didn't."

"How would you—?"

"I was just in his office."

"So _I_ couldn't have gone—?"

"No."

They lapsed in silence after his deadpanned cut off, the Entity sliding her legs further beneath his sheets as she abandoned her interest in cleaning off his clothes. "He would've eventually," she grumbled under breath.

"Nik—"

He was cut off by the brief rapping on his door, and before he could answer a dark head of hair popped in. "Are you decent, your highness?"

"What's the point if you're going to barge in anyway? And don't call me that." Kaltag growled at the entering Vice Admiral.

Daedelus completely ignored him in favor of sending a brief nod to Nikola. "I was just checking on you," he admitted, his dark eyes scanning the disarray of his bedroom. "Oh … I _knew_ that chicken downstairs tasted funny."

"Argentum l'orange," Nikola readily provided with a smirk. "Bit stringy if you ask me."

"Well, I'm fine anyway, so you can get out. Both of you." The redhead hissed, pushing Nikola's questing hands away from the neck wound.

His eyebrows lowered when both Nikola and Daedelus exchanged a meaningful look, both quickly rolling their eyes and looking away, Nikola flopping back onto the bed. "Uh-oh."

"You see?" They simultaneously replied, Daedelus folding his arms and sizing him up.

Kaltag gawped for all of a second before he stood to his feet, scowling. "Why does everyone insist something is wrong when I say I'm fine?"

"Because you're never fine. Get over yourself." Nikola casually replied as she propped what was left of his pillows up and crossed her legs to remove feathers from her skirt. "Something's always wrong and you're always trying—badly, might I add—to hide it."

"She's right," Daedelus added. "You're terrible at hiding how you really feel."

"I don't remember ordering a therapy session in my room tonight." The redheaded Being groused, glowering at the intruders.

"This isn't a therapy session," Nikola shook her head, a lone brown eye visible from beneath her fringe of yellow and white. "It's an intervention. Help _us_ help _you_," she whispered in a dramatic strain, clutching a wad of feathers close. "Kaltagonus … _don't_ make us bring out the sock puppets." Daedelus nodded cynically in agreement.

Kaltag stared between the two invaders incredulously, his mouth hanging open and his gaze darting between the two Celestials who were trying hard not to break into a fit of laughter in rapid succession. "What, does Spiridon have me on suicide watch now?"

They instantly sobered, saying nothing, doing nothing, not blinking, nor pursing their lips, or even moving, and that made Kaltag swell with more anger.

"Get out." He finally said, pointing to the door. "Seriously. I mean it. I'm not joking. _Get_ _out_."

Nikola blew a tuft of flaxen hair from her face before huffily sighing. Kaltag could feel his face steadily becoming redder. "I said—"

"Perhaps it is best," the three all together became serious and turned to the deep voice emanating from the doorway. In the shadows of the hallway, Kaltag could make out the grim outline that was the ward-master, the head of the house, and the bane of his existence. "If you were to listen to him."

Angry heat began to slowly flood Kaltag's senses as the dark man stepped into his room, the uninvited tingles redoubling and scratching at his body. Spiridon's dark eyes flitted to Daedelus for the briefest second—the man seemed to cow somewhat under the inspection—before navy eyes found his daughter. "I've just learned there's been an accident on the Hogwarts Express."

Nikola gasped loudly and immediately scrambled out of Kaltag's bed and to her feet, bringing a wave of feathers with her. Kaltag felt his heart squeeze uncomfortably before sinking. Harry … Ella … what happened to them?

"Dad, what—"

"A student, Death Eater. Some lives were lost."

Nikola's brown eyes swam with tears that didn't fall. Kaltag wanted to comfort her, but found himself frozen. "Who—"

"I don't know," Spiridon gently cut off the young Entity's answer. "You can write your friends, but don't be alarmed if they do not respond quickly enough. It is a traumatic experience, after all."

Nikola made a short whining noise in the back of her throat before a gust of wind and a flurry of feathers signaled her speedy exit, her interrogation forgotten. Kaltag swallowed, but his throat was dry and cottony. He needed to find out about Harry.

He suddenly found himself stroking the Ravenstone Scepter's orb between his fingers, a sense of calm washing over him. Harry. Somehow, for some reason, he knew Harry was all right. He was a survivor, after all.

"Didn't you have business to attend to, Daedelus?" The General edgily prompted.

The Vice Admiral glanced to his leader and nodded once. "It's done."

Spiridon narrowed his eyes. "Make sure of it."

"Sir." Daedelus made a sweeping bow before he, too, left, not once looking back at the redhead, closing the door behind him. Kaltag rolled the warmth of the Scepter between his fingers, his thoughts drifting to Harry and how he was faring. He thought he saw a blur of street light passing beyond a window but was interrupted by a throat clearing. Immediately, his glare rounded on the General.

"What, come to finish what you started downstairs?" He growled, booting Nikola's shoes under the bed and stowing his trunk by the door. He made a show of rudely shoving past the man as he slammed it against the wall.

Spiridon's brow creased in irritation as he watched the angry Being. "Do you know what your problem is?" He brusquely started, aggravated.

"Besides you?" Kaltag snapped, roughly jostling his pillows back the way they were.

The dark-haired magnate paused, his eyes glittering with something unreadable as he regarded his son. "You know you really hurt me with those comments."

A mirthless laugh bubbled in Kaltag's throat. "I think you deserve a dose of your own medicine, considering."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Kaltagonus." He heatedly replied after another stint of tense silence.

"Good. Tell me what you're telling me and get out."

Spiridon balled his fists, affronted with the rude way the boy was dismissing him. Were he a soldier in the Battalion, Spiridon would have had the elders whip him within an inch of his life and force him to rigorous training in the camp. Ephebes showing such blatant disrespect were beaten into shape: disciplined, and if they continued their contempt, jailed, or executed.

He suddenly wished his son got far worse treatment. Almost spitefully, he replied, "I've decided where you will be staying this summer."

Blue eyes flashed orange for a split second before Kaltag bit out, "Don't bother. I'm going to Icarus' in the morning. I'm sure he'll have me."

"You're not going anywhere I say you can't go." Spiridon's tone was low and menacing.

The redhead froze, slowly spinning around from emptying out his nightstand. He smirked. He couldn't do anything to him, even if the wards were rejecting him. "Oh? Where are you sending me—rehab?" He snorted. The skin around the elder Celestial's eyes tightened. "I'm going to Ick's. You just try and stop me."

His leer faltered slightly when Spiridon grimly returned his smile. "I, Spiridon Smythe, the Master of the Wards, have selected a permanent guardian for the un-Kept dweller, Kaltagonus Smythe; a person with whom he will live out the end of his adolescence under the definition of Celestial Authority, and that guardian," his voice raised a notch above a whisper. Kaltag tried to keep the color from draining from his face when he spoke, "Is Severus Snape."

Stunned silence zapped the tension in the air as Kaltag stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the contented General. He couldn'tve just said … he didn't … he had to be joking, right? The end of his adolescence? Under _Celestial_ law? That meant well into his thirties! One glance at the Celestial's stoic face and singular elevated eyebrow said it all. The ants weren't crawling all over him anymore. In fact, it was a strange, rough prickling feeling, like oil, or curdling … grease, as if he hadn't bathed in days.

Sensing the boy's impending explosion, Spiridon quickly informed, "You leave at the end of this week. I'll work on finalizing the adoption for this year. It's for your own good, you know." When the shocked boy didn't reply, he turned and opened the door, stepping out into the corridor. He couldn't help but throw over his shoulder as he closed the door, "Do clean this up. Think of it as practice for when you get to Severus'; if memory serves me right, I do believe he loathes untidiness."

As expected, Kaltag exploded into an unholy screech.

_"WHAT?!"_

oooooooooo

* * *

**A/N**: Yeah, I know, lots of dialogue and character dynamics, but it's necessary for future progress. And yes, I'm also aware that both chapters have 'Part I' tagged on to the end, and that's for a specific reason which you'll see in the (hopefully) near future. Thanks for reading! 

**A/N 2**: A picture of Tag's tattoo can be found on the website whose link is found on my profile. Just root around the site 'til ya find 'er.

**Next chapter**: Snape and Kaltag finally meet. Ohh, dear.


	3. 3: And Kiss Your Axx Goodbye, Pt II

**The Best Intentions**

**Disclaimer:** Whatever you've never heard of belongs to me. As for all else . . . one can only make empty wishes . . . .

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_Am I? – Inward thoughts._

_**Kill it.**_ – _Golradir thought-speech._

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**Warning**: Again, I remind you this _is not_ a **Harry Potter-centric** story.

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Three: … And Kiss Your Ass Goodbye, Part II

"Are you _certain_ you used the word 'permanent'?"

The dark-eyed General glanced away from his scattered paperwork to glare at the head bobbing in his fireplace. He gave the intimidating sallow face in the fire another curt nod—the third in the last fifteen minutes, the same answer to the same question three times over—and scribbled his birth date on the designated line.

"For the last time, Severus: yes, I'm _quite certain_ I said it was permanent," He curtly reminded.

Again, dark eyebrows lowered over dark, expressionless eyes. The wizard's thin lips sealed even tighter. His face was pinched, his eyes appraising, seeming to quietly conjure logic and rebuttals to mind. "Correct me if I am wrong—and I'm _quite certain_ that I am not," he parodied with a sneer, "but I was under the impression that this … arrangement," the lack of a better term dripped from his mouth disdainfully, "was only temporary."

Spiridon marked the last dot over his name a bit forcefully. "You weren't wrong. I meant for it to be temporary."

"Yes, you _meant_ for it to be temporary, and yet, you tell me now it is permanent. I stand bewildered, General Smythe," the potion master drawled, his expression darkening. "And I have no patience to entertain being bewildered."

"Perhaps an explanation would cure your cursed confusion?" When no response—or sarcasm—was forthcoming, he glanced at the head spitting green flame in his hearth. Snape's face was expectant and grimly eager. Spiridon frowned, his gaze lowered to the dancing shadows on his desk as he reluctantly confessed, "I got angry."

Snape blinked once, speechless. He blinked a second time for good measure before an eyebrow gradually arched up his forehead following that confession. "Angry." Came his deadpanned response.

"He upset me. Disrespectful, rude, undisciplined; I've a mind to take a whipcord and tan his hide. Do you know he smashed his mirror today—in the bathroom, caused a great commotion around two in the morning and it was only by sheer luck that I stopped him from destroying every glass surface. But you know he said nothing when I asked him about it?" Spiridon incredulously explained. "No explanation, no apology: nothing. His attitude has certainly gone darker, and, urgh—don't even get me started on the boy's mood."

The potion master resisted the urge to roll his eyes and heave a sigh. It was far too Gryffindor-like in gesture. "No. Let's not."

Spiridon scrawled his name across another document before throwing his pen aside and burying his head in his hands. A sharp sigh was wrung from his throat, or much deeper, it seemed. He shook his head idly, his fingers running over the weeks-old coarse hairs on his face he'd yet to shave. "Severus," His head still shook absently, the name falling from his lips with such gravity. The professor nearly pitied the man, but not quite. "You should have seen the boy."

A frown befell the wizard's countenance. "And thanks to you, I'll be seeing a lot more of him."

"I … just have no idea how to handle him anymore."

"And you think _I_ do?"

The General cast him a wry look. "You are a professor, after all."

Snape threw him a sour look. "What's more, Gene has already approved you as choice guardian."

The professor's eyebrow raised a fraction, his eyes glittering with disbelief. When he spoke, his voice was low, fairly reproachful. "You've gone to the Authority with this?"

Spiridon shook his head, exasperation contorting his features. "And have the _Herald_ blaring conspiracy by the evening edition? Of course not. Gene works for the Adoption Authority here. A non-magic adoption would be more discreet, don't you think?"

"I think there should not have been an adoption in the first place," the wizard barbed, clearly averse to the General's decision. "I would have preferred my opinion be included during your decision-making, if not my presence entirely." The dark-eyed professor drawled coldly, rage stewing beneath his icy demeanor. The General held the professor's gaze for a few moments, his brow drawn together. If he hadn't known Severus, he would have assumed the man was merely annoyed. Luckily, he knew Snape better than that. He wasn't upset that he hadn't been included: he was upset that he'd been overlooked. Disregarded. Forgotten. And with a history like Severus', he really should have known better.

Of course he valued Severus' opinion; this did include him after all. But he just wasn't thinking at the time; of course, facing an irate, unreasonable teenager would cause such things to happen.

"Not to worry," the Celestial waved ink-blemished fingers at the green fire to appease the wizard. "You will not be alone in this. Daedelus and I will check in on him from time to time. He will not like this, but I can't be fussed with his feelings." Spiridon quietly admitted, throwing Snape a sidelong glance. "That is, if you're still interested."

The hook-nosed wizard shot him a vitriolic look. "As if you've given me much choice in the matter."

Spiridon fought the urge to apologize. He wouldn't. He didn't need to. Not really.

"Furthermore, I fail to see the point in this adoption," the potion master began after a considerably pregnant pause. "Is he not an adult already? An adoption at his age would clearly be ineffective, a waste of time."

The Celestial shook his head as he inked his pen. "Seventeen is the age of adulthood in _your_ world," he gently reminded. "Nineteen is the age when he is called 'boy' no longer, but an adult he is not until he is well into his thirties, by Celestial law; when Kronos himself slows time for Celestial aging. Factors are dependent upon their individual power of course, but that is a lesson for another time."

Snape didn't look too happy with that. His next words proved as much: "Do you mean to tell me," he slowly began, voice quiet and deadly, "that I will be looking after that insolent menace for the next twenty years of his life?" His nostrils were flared, his eyes blazing fury.

This may have been effective on first and second years in his class, but not on Spiridon Smythe, commander of Olympos' most ruthless armies. He was warlord over a group of Spartans, for goodness' sake, and they as good as invented intimidation. In answer, the Being gave a noncommittal shrug. "Give or take. After all, he is _your _insolent menace, now."

"If you think for one second that I—"

"In all actuality though," he smoothly interrupted the wizard's incoming tirade, "the agreement I made was a Blood Guardianship arrangement. It only holds for the period of a year, then dissolves without interference."

Snape's eyes glimmered darkly, almost greedily. He gruffly suggested, "So it is possible for me to accept the guardianship from this distance while still keeping him under your care?"

Spiridon pursed his lips, frowning. Unfortunately, it was. He solemnly nodded once. "Considering his age, you cannot reappoint me guardian next year. The blood wards protecting him from danger would be remarkably weak stretched thin over such distance... But yes, distant acknowledgment is possible. Whatever efforts I take to protect him further, however, would count as interference."

He saw a nigh undetectable flicker of relief faintly ease the tension lines from around Snape's eyes and mouth. He'd paused, tapping his pen while waiting for Snape to gesture for him to continue. "But I'm afraid that's unacceptable."

"Oh?" The professor warily inquired, a challenging gleam in his eyes.

"A year's worth of ties to your wards will not be enough to keep him hidden from the deadly plans of Mystikos and the Dark Lord, especially given the distance." The tension returned tenfold to the wizard's face. He didn't like this. But he had to see. He would make him see—had to make reason, _make_ him see, for Kaltag's safety.

The wizard's expression soured. "Then what was the point of telling me this information if I have nothing to look forward to after the year is over? I would still be obligated to claim him as blood-protected."

'Obligated'? Spiridon could hardly believe the harsh words issuing from Snape's mouth—the boy's godfather, no less—cold, cross, and crotchety. If it hadn't been for Snape's hooked nose bobbing in his fireplace, he'd have thought he was talking to his fiery-tempered son again. They were perfect for each other, really.

"Severus," the General softly pleaded, "please: go through with this. All the old protections woven into the Ignazio-Snape legacy could put my wards to shame on their best day. You are all he has standing between him and Voldemort."

"_Don't_ say his name."

"It's better to adopt him, you know it is," Spiridon resumed, despite the dark glint in Snape's eyes now. The potion master's jaw was clenched tightly, complete with a fiery-greenish vein throbbing above his right eye, both eyes hard and cold as stone. Spiridon knew he had but a small window of opportunity in which he could appeal to Snape, to make him agreeable, even if he didn't have a choice in the matter.

Almost pleadingly, the dark-eyed Celestial lowered his tone, laying his hands flat on his desk. His insistent blue eyes met Snape's, desperate. "Please. Don't do this to him." Snape's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "I know that he's presumptuous and defiant, but it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. He's turned his rebelliousness towards you because I've done him wrong, ever since he was a child. Because I—"

He choked his next words, dropping his pen aside as his mind raced past with banners broadcasting his bad mishandling of Kaltag since childhood. He'd known, he'd known ever since Diocletian, ever since Mystikos—ever since Lily—that he would have a harder time with his firstborn. He'd sworn many times that he would choose the best path with him to make the best of the situation. But it seemed all he'd ever done with the redhead was make a mess of things; no matter how hard he'd tried, he had failed. Spiridon thought he was thinking of Kaltag's well being.

_But all you were worried about was yourself,_ an accusing voice hissed.

His hands tightened into fists and his gaze narrowed at the head in the green flames. No more. Enough was enough. He'd ruin the boy no more.

Squaring his jaw, his brow slanting over determined eyes—Snape's own narrowed distrustfully as he collected himself—Spiridon inwardly nodded to himself. His eyes darted briefly to the picture of his eight-year-old firstborn with the beaming others, even then smiling half-heartedly from the silver picture frame.

No more.

"There is nothing more … powerful and frightening than a parent's love for their child. Mother to daughter: a father's, for his son. It rivals even great Zeus' power, and can destroy even the … the most vile of evils." It came out as barely a whisper, but loud enough over the quiet crackling of the flames. More importantly, it certainly gave the potion master pause.

"Severus, as a father, I … I've failed." His chest twisted with a glaring pain that he'd wished had been physical instead of psychologically. "Too long have I let my ambitions cloud my responsibility as a parent. I hurt my son, Severus, in ways much worse than physical," he confessed to the condemning stare the professor was piercing him with. "I may have exhausted my last chance with him … but _you_ haven't. You still have a chance.

"I implore you: don't do this to your godson. I made _you_ his godfather for a reason. I saw all the potential and ambition in the world inside you when those Remedies Masters turned you away, twenty years ago, for who and what you were. I wanted that indomitable boy, who refused to be cowed by their prejudice and even rebuffed my chastisement of them on his behalf... I wanted that brave and fearless boy, who would face down injustice and intolerance of the worst kind to make my child's world a small degree better, in my son's life.

"Be that boy again, Severus," he'd leaned forward now, staring the stoic professor in his blackish-green eyes. "You've strayed far from the Severus I knew then, but I still know your heart. You're not upset that I've named you guardian without your consent: you're just afraid to care again."

He paused then, not because Snape's eyes churned with barely contained fury, but wishing that he'd had _ouzo_ or something stronger to loosen more words from his tongue. The professor's gaze hardened at his words, emerald flame dancing coldly in his glare. He needed to hear this. His fears had to be met head on, otherwise Kaltagonus would suffer. (1)

"So if you want to be that adult coward who accepts the guardianship from a distance and condemns his ward to death, I won't stop you. But that boy I met twenty years ago," his eyes were narrower now, as if he were looking past his lank hair and at the gangling, hard-faced, resolute boy he'd encountered some two decades before, "Would have never left his godson to die at the hands of injustice personified. That boy was a far braver man than any soldier under my guard. I chose that boy, knowing that whatever the circumstance, I could trust him, more than even myself, with my son's life." (2)

His mouth was open, poised to continue, but he realized he'd said all he had to say. The rest was entirely up to Severus. The wizard's eyes gleamed undecipherable but with quiet power, the fire swirling about his dark curtain of hair as he deeply thought in silence.

The Being eyed him critically for a moment before turning to the stack of papers on his desk. Words escaped him at the moment, all things thought having been said; any more would have gone well into manipulation, and Severus would have definitely shut him down from the moment he knew he was being fed lines. So Spiridon picked up his pen again, though signing his name to release pension to several longtime workers, but feeling more like he was signing his son away for good. Like he was signing over his very soul.

Stiff silence descended on the darkened office as Spiridon continued signing paperwork. As he signed off on a new takeover, he realized the flames in his hearth were still green. He thought their conversation had ended. Severus was especially quiet, and he'd thought he'd left to mull over his decision. The Being glanced upward, eyebrow arched in question. "Was there something else?" He carefully asked. These days, Severus could use any word as stinging ammunition.

The sallow wizard's brow was knit together, pleated with preoccupation. His obsidian eyes were averted, still on his face, but not meeting his eyes. Unusual. "Severus?"

The potion master's eyes still did not—could not—meet his. "What about the Dark Lord?" He grimly asked. "If I am summoned, and rest assured, I will be: what do I tell him?"

Spiridon frowned. "Voldem—the Dark Lord?"

"He has already called for me once." Spiridon froze, mid-signature, his blue eyes widening as they found Snape's. "He was fairly displeased when I told him I had not had contact with the boy since the year of the Potters' demise." His black eyes glittered with something deeper for a moment, before his expression was once again carefully blank.

The General wryly smiled, tilting his head drolly. "Severus … you lied to the Dark Lord and yet you have the gall to moan about detesting the boy?" The wizard scoffed, a few embers flying out of his hooked nose.

"He only specified physical or missive contact." He drawled, throwing the Celestial a black look.

"Not skulking-in-the-shadows-during-recitals contact, eh?"

The wizard scowled darkly. "I don't recall him being that specific, no."

"I'm only teasing, Severus," the Being smirked before turning serious. "What else did he want?"

Snape's eyes had that strange gleam again, the one that made Spiridon want to squirm in discomfort. He couldn't recall ever knowing that expression when Severus was younger. Finally, Snape replied, "He's asked me to return to you," he admitted with a disgruntled expression. "To sway the boy in our direction. He believes whatever the boy's alliance, his mother's alliance will be, also."

The magnate let the last statement slip by, frowning. "Athena would never side with Voldemort, not after what he did to Lily Potter." He could feel the sudden pull of the wand in his desk drawer when he said the witch's name. "Furthermore, Kaltagonus will not sway. He answers to no side but his own." Spiridon firmly stated, his fingers tightening around his pen.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Why would he want your son for his side?"

"Why else?" Spiridon briskly replied. "Power."

"I fear there is something far more powerful at work here," he ominously declared. This time the General pursed his lips and averted his eyes.

"It's power, Severus: that's all the Dark Lord is after," he sought to soothe, to veer the far too intelligent mind away from rough waters. "Kaltagonus lots of it from what he's seen in the forest; which is why this adoption would be crucial."

"You still want me to take him." Snape asked incredulously, his eyes comically large. "Even after hearing what the Dark Lord requests of me?" It was Spiridon's turn to divert his gaze.

"If you are trying to dissuade me from my choice, I'm afraid it is too late."

"I may not be able to reappoint you, but you can still renounce your selection of me."

"Severus—"

"You have the authority to overturn your claim."

"And I refuse."

"What do I tell him when I am summoned?" Snape brought up, his eyes blazing green and black. "Have you thought of that? What do I tell the boy when he discovers the truth?"

"You tell him the truth," he replied distractedly, but not without bitterness. "That all manner of goodness fears you because you're a terribly nasty Death Eater."

The professor scowled. "I meant the Dark Lord; I don't care what the boy thinks of me." _But you do care for him,_ he wanted to point out to the potion master if he wasn't positive he'd walk through the Floo and banish his tongue into the fire. He'd made more than enough assumptions and uncovered too many hidden truths this evening than the man would have liked. "If he discovers that the boy is with me, he will find a way to get around my wards."

"Then it's up to you to make sure he never finds out, Master Occlumens."

The potion master glowered. "You think it's that easy?"

"Well, it certainly isn't as difficult as you're making it out to be."

The dark-haired wizard gave him a black look. "And what of the boy?"

"What about him?" Spiridon countered, his tone a sharp edge of irritation.

Snape's mouth fell in a thin line of dissatisfaction. His eyes didn't meet the General's. _Again_. "What am I supposed to tell him when I am summoned?"

Spiridon paused, his pen aloft in the air, his expression thrown in emerald shadows. The scowl on his face suddenly relaxed in a light, mildly amused expression. He let a small chuckle pass his lips as Snape's brow puckered in bemusement and annoyance. "Why, Severus," he sang, his mouth in a crooked, wry grin. "I thought you didn't care what the boy thought about you."

For the second time that week he found himself thrown in darkness as the Potions professor brusquely ended the firecall. He was just grateful his tongue was spared another day.

ooooo

On the last day of the week, the young Entity was surprised to find the door she had spent the better part of a week propped against, wailing choruses of well-known love songs at the top of her lungs to, standing open. That was certainly unexpected.

Curious, cautious, the blonde knocked on the doorframe as she peeked in. "Hey," she carefully greeted, taking in the slight disarray of the room. Argentum was the first to greet her with a low hoot from his perch in his cage.

The young Being was shuffling a pile of papers on his desk before neatly stacking them into a grey envelope. He paused to greet her with a curt nod before he glumly went to another task: packing. Bewildered, her brown eyes roved the bedroom strewn with clothing and books and whatever else the boy decided he hadn't needed in his trunk.

She never remembered him being at all messy, for as long as she knew him. Strange things were at work here, indeed. She frowned slightly, watching the Being stuff several jumpers in beside a slew of trousers.

"I don't think you'll need all those at Mykonos," she said lightly, inviting herself to push aside a stack of books to make room on the bed. She leaned back on her palms and stole a glimpse into the chest, quickly grabbing a pullover. "Really: we won't be wearing half of these things to the beach."

He said nothing, his fingers only tightening around the green garment in his hand before he set it in the trunk. After setting aside another tome, he grabbed the sweater from the blonde's hands. "I heard Pallas Admes was playing over at Delphi. Wanna crash?" She prompted with a crooked grin.

Her smile waned as he left the trunk for the closet and before long returned with a couple of silk neckties. Definitely not beachwear. Nikola's eyebrows lowered in puzzlement at his inattention. Odd: whenever he wanted her to leave, he'd definitely been more vocal about it in the past. She didn't like this; not one bit. Drumming her fingers on the duvet, she lit up with a sudden spark of inspiration. "You can invite Ella! Did you get in touch with her?"

He seemed to slow at the mention of the fiery-haired witch, but continued swapping chitons for jumpers and sandals for trainers. Even the owl made a gruff sound at her name. "She's fine." He languidly informed, tossing out an ugly pair of brown argyle socks as he resumed packing. She congratulated herself on the small victory: at least he was talking. In no time, she was sure he'd be pulling out tufts of hair and dumping her out into the hall. It was a tradition she was loath to part with.

As for the Being, indeed he had received her terse response only yesterday from Argentum, who had ruffled his feathers and hadn't budged for an hour when he'd told him who the letter was for. He couldn't, for the life of him, understand what had the owl in such a huff—surely Ella hadn't mishandled him—but at last he had relented after many empty threats (and some colorful ones quietly floating around in his head).

He had returned restless days later with a brief,

'_I'm all right._

_Yours, Ella'_

He'd stared at the letter for several minutes, brow furrowed in confusion until he'd had to spell himself once again to rid his thoughts of spiteful taunts. Only then did he notice a few small unexplained brown dots on the parchment's back, and he'd distinctly picked up the sharp, sweet scent of Ella's blood. How he knew it was her blood and why she was bleeding, he didn't want to spend too much time thinking on, lest … _someone _got any ideas.

Nikola frowned at his brooding mood, trying to read his expression for any explanation as to why. He didn't seem sick, though he certainly looked pale, drawn. He wasn't at breakfast, so she drew it to that conclusion. "You didn't eat this morning."

He blinked and looked at her, as if only realizing she was still there, and returned with, "I had coffee."

He didn't see her face scrunch in bewilderment. "Since when do you drink coffee?"

"Since now."

"I thought you hated coffee."

"I guess you don't know me as well as you thought then, do you?"

She opened her mouth to retort but stopped suddenly, thinking back to the days she had spent this week propped against his door listening for any sort of movement, any life. Her brow furrowed, glaring at the black underpants in his hand. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen you at any of the meals this week. You missed out on some good ones."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"I'd like to see how, especially since you've missed every meal this week," her voice held a clear note of disapproval, and had his eyes met her face, he was sure he would see disappointment and worry there. That was the last thing he needed, especially today. "You've lost some weight," she repeated from some nights ago.

He would concede that indeed he had (as one was expected to after surviving a week off of solid coffee and biscuits) slimmed down, but not rapidly. Perhaps his gaunt face gave the illusion that he'd drastically dropped several pounds. At any rate, the Being was never fat in the first place: he wasn't Basil Montgomery-wiry, but he wasn't Professor Chiron muscle-y, or Ron Weasley fat. Well, Weasley wasn't fat per se, but with the fervor he ate, it was surprising he wasn't bigger.

Nevertheless, he sniffed—or was it a scoff?—as Nikola's pensive face pulled him back to the present. The corner of his lips faintly turned up, and definitely not in a smile. "Ever the astute."

She blinked at his sneer, for he never sneered at her, not really, but this time she knew he'd meant it. Her lips pursing at his attitude and blatant approach to ignoring her, she suddenly sped out of the room for a second before she returned to his side. He hadn't even blinked.

Her mouth in a deep scowl, Nikola balanced the plate of toast on the glass of orange juice she'd nicked from under Starbuck's nose and snatched the pair of underwear from his hands, hurling it over her shoulder. Luckily, no one decided to enter his room then or they'd have got a face full of soiled underpants. Pity Starbuck hadn't chosen that moment to bug him.

Blue eyes darkened in her direction before widening at the steaming plate of butter-soaked toast shoved under his nose. The Being's gaze shifted to the no-nonsense Entity's surly look.

"Eat. Now."

"Nikola…"

"You don't really want me force feeding you." She threatened, pulling the plate and glass to her level. "Be glad I didn't choose the French toast; this would be a lot messier."

Despite the menacing situation, the redhead pulled a face. "French toast—"

"Makes you nauseous. I know," she chimed along with him, adding an eye roll and pressing the plate into his chest. "Even now I question why I didn't grab that instead; you certainly deserve to suffer. Now, eat."

The redhead fought the urge to roll his eyes and sigh in exasperation. He shook his head and muttered, "I don't have time for this."

"_Eat."_

"I'm not hungry."

"_Now."_

"Nikola…" Annoyance darkened his eyes as he folded a dress shirt and frowned at her. Her fingers tensed around the plate and juice glass, thankfully not enough to break it (Erastus more than her father would kill her, after all).

Well. He'd soon learn that desperate times called for desperate measures.

The Entity's voice was calm, gentle, as she delivered one last request. "I'll ask you one last time, Kaltagonus—"

"Look, Nikola, I—_mmph_!"

He nearly choked on the folded piece of toast shoved viciously down his throat. Narrowed brown eyes dared him to spit it out.

"I warned ya, didn't I?" She smacked her lips and remarked jadedly as she shook butter from her fingers.

"_Mikuhwuh!"_

"Don't talk with your mouth full, dear: it's _très_ unbecoming." She drawled in bored tones at the gagging redhead, the second slice of toast folded threateningly between her fingers. With another cough he managed to swallow the large lump of bread without further damage to his throat. "Encore?" The petite blonde snarled sweetly, lunging forward to repeat her actions one more time.

This time, Kaltagonus blocked the assault and returned the Entity's glare. She should consider herself lucky that he'd spelled himself mere seconds before she'd invaded his room. He couldn't even begin to imagine what _he_ would have done if he hadn't. "What the hell are you trying to do—kill me?"

"No, I'd say you've got that all figured out for yourself: skipping meals and moping in here all week."

"It's none of y—_Nikola, quit it!" _He dodged her second attempt to strangle him with bread. "Nikola, I'm—"

"Fine?" She snarled, butter oozing onto his floor from her fist squeezing the toast so hard. "You're avoiding everyone, you're skipping out on Mykonos, and you're drinking _coffee_, for the love of God—that which you despise so much, if memory serves—so you're hardly _fine_ and I—"

She suddenly stopped mid-sentence, her mouth poised to speak the next words but her eyes blazing russet fire as they scrutinized him closely. He could see the tiniest ripples of muscle beneath her cheeks and around her mouth, hesitating, shaking with indecision. The Being merely arched an eyebrow as the beginnings of barely audible retorts issued from her throat. Finally, the blonde Entity snapped her mouth shut and pursed her lips very tightly, scowling so hard he very nearly heard the glass of orange juice sing in protest as her grip tightened.

He didn't see her hand's quick movement, but he certainly felt the sting on his arm from her hard pinch. Her hand was back around the glass of juice before it dropped another inch. "Ow! What the hell was that for?" the redhead exclaimed, pressing the heel of his palm to the stinging mark. If there wasn't a large turkey emblazoned on his back, he'd have removed his clothes to study the damage. Granted, the squeeze wasn't nearly as hard as he had expected, but it hurt nonetheless. He glanced quickly at the mirror making sure it was still veiled and ignored the faint chuckle in the back of his mind.

But then the Entity blurted out angrily, "You were going to kill yourself? Really?" Her stance was held in a way that quietly demanded he tell her the truth and nothing but, or he'd find himself with several unexplainable broken bones and a new piece of art for his wall, courtesy of Erastus' morning cuisine … or his spleen, whichever projectile she was in the mood to launch today.

He merely blinked, closing his trunk and latching the locks. Argentum squawked and flapped indignantly as the remaining slice of toast sailed by his enclosure sooner than expected. It landed with a dissatisfying 'splat' on the washed out periodic table hanging beside the window. The Being was rather disappointed she hadn't thrown the plate as well: those had cost Spiridon a fortune. At least his spleen was still intact.

"You—you—you—!" She snarled, her arms waving aimlessly as she struggled to come up with an insult. "You—"

"Me what? I don't have time for this." He murmured in annoyance, hauling his trunk off the bed and to the floor. He let it down at her feet and stared directly into her fierce, expectant eyes. There was a telling scowl on her face, but he was still too numb to feel anything but annoyance. "If you're quite finished," he pleasantly informed with an edge of irritation in his tone, "I'll be taking my leave."

It seemed whatever anger she'd harbored in the last few minutes had all but dissipated at his words. "You're leaving?" Her brown eyes were wide with surprise.

"I hoped the packed trunk served as an indication, as well as leaving your considerable intelligence to do the rest," he drawled as he went to lift Argentum's cage. "Alas … I was mistaken."

She ignored his sarcasm. "Where are you going? Is it a business trip?"

"Did I say that?"

"That's a big trunk for one day's travel."

"Again: did I say that?"

Her expression was dismayed, her lips pursed before she announced, "I'll talk to papa, make him see reason." The Entity met his eyes with sharp determination. "You're coming to Mykonos with me."

"Ha," the mirthless laugh was soft, unbidden. "I doubt that."

She quirked her lips to the right—her signature look of calculation—as she backed away and grabbed the doorframe to his closet and peeked in. The blond reemerged with a bewildered smile. "Overkill much? You practically packed the entire closet: cleaned it out as if you're not coming back."

The redhead shifted his gaze uncomfortably away from her scrutiny, his hands absently rubbing the marking rounding his hip. "That would be the idea."

Immediately, her face fell. No more joking, it seemed. Her tone was equally grave. "Kaltagonus?" His fingers tensed on his sides, feeling the warmth of his wand beneath them. "You're coming back, right? Right?" She prompted again after he remained silent. As expected, her eyes widened a fraction, the hopeful grin that threatened to cross her face deadened completely in his quiet.

Whether by her speed or her determination, he suddenly found her russet eyes and worried face much closer than before. "Tell me. Please." He swallowed, palms sweaty and the beast in his mind beginning to stir from the enchantment. "Kaltagonus—"

"Nikola, I say this to you in love," he interrupted with a furrowed, troubled brow. "Shut up, and get out of my way."

The blond scoffed, crossing her arms and holding her ground. "Well, _that_ wasn't very loving."

"_Nikola!"_

"So what?" She shrugged a shoulder. "You're just going to leave? No explanation, nothing?"

His vacant blue eyes held hers, gleaming worry and confusion, before he shortly replied, "Yeah."

He would never tell her how much it stung him to brush her off like that.

As he made for the door, trunk and owl cage in hand, he stopped short at her quiet words. "This was supposed to be our summer, remember?" He didn't need to see her face to know her eyes would be swimming with pain at his rejection. Besides: he could literally taste the salt of her tears drifting on the air.

"Last holiday before our last year: no rules, no boundaries, no dad to tell us what we can and cannot do," she continued, her voice still quiet. "We'd be the adults, finally being looked at as something other than children. We were looking forward to that: _you_ were looking forward to that. Now you won't even talk to me, tell me what's wrong. You've been avoiding me all week and haven't filled your daily quotas for insulting Starbuck. You don't... What happened? What's got into you?"

His fingers tightened on the handle of his trunk. If she only knew. _My God,_ he bitterly thought. _You have no idea._

"Please," she was speaking again, a breezy and desperate pitch in her tone. "Don't shut me out, Tag."

His throat was suddenly dry. He wanted to tell her. He was desperate to tell her. His chest was bursting with the need to tell her everything. Everything from the memories, to Harry, to the traitorous papa she waffled so much about. He had the pressing impulse to shatter her perfect world as his had been. Trouble was, he didn't know if it was the will of the beast … or his own aspiration.

The Being wet his lips, seeking the comfort of the lightly vibrating cuff before continuing. "Nik?"

"Yes?" She eagerly responded, her chest heaving with breath and anticipation and support.

Fortunately for her sake, a knock sounded at the door that very moment. Kaltag had never felt so relieved to be interrupted. "Knock, knock," Daedelus lightly chimed as he made a quick scan over the room before settling on the teens with a crooked smile. "Good morning, Nikola."

Though she smiled, her eyes shown brightly with the disappointment of being interrupted. "Daedelus." She neutrally acknowledged, her arms tightening around her frame.

"Kaltagonus, we've a schedule to keep and we're already running behind."

"Just a moment, Daed." Nikola cut in before Kaltag could nod his acknowledgment. "Kaltag wanted to tell me something?"

Her eyes held that significant look, a sharp look, one he'd always envisioned his mother giving them if they'd been caught doing mischief. Of course, it was pointless now: she wasn't _his_ mother. The look was supposed to mean nothing to him. Her feelings were supposed to mean nothing to him. They weren't even related. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't.

But the problem was that he did, if he'd read the lurching sensation in his stomach right. His eyes fell on her, but didn't meet her eyes. He didn't think they ever would again.

"Don't forget your suntan lotion. Enjoy Mykonos."

He didn't have to see the look on her face to know it was concern and frustration. He could taste it on the air, of course. His hearing picked up the slight disturbance in the air that was her taking a deep breath to say something, but the air reached the Vice Admiral's lungs faster. He really needed to find a way to suppress these abilities.

"Nikola, if that's all, would you kindly excuse us? I need to speak with Kaltagonus. Alone." He punctuated when she didn't move. Her bright eyes searched the younger Being's one more time before she murmured a sanction to the second-in-command and left the room.

As the sound of her footfalls faded down the corridor, Daedelus shut the door behind him and smiled at the redhead. "_Ti kanis?"_ he gently asked. (3)

A bitter snort left the teen's throat as he crossed his arms and turned to the window. "Let's see: I've barely slept six hours since last week, consumed nothing but liquid for four days, dreamt of murder every night, got a tramp stamp on the back of my ass … and you ask me how I'm doing." He acidly fumed. "Sufficient answer?"

"More than enough," the dark-haired Being replied. "Then again, the truest words are spoken in the heat of anger."

"Get that off a fortune cookie, did you?"

"Insulting me won't make this any easier," he stated as he glanced at his wristwatch.

"Wanna bet?"

"This is going to be a long day and we're running late. I suggest you pack up your attitude and take it out on the people who've earned your ire—quickly," Daedelus advised, his perturbed expression morphing into one of sinister glee. "Though slow down with Snape's attack. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he's presented with the adoption papers."

The Vice Admiral's eyes widened as he caught his mistake entirely too late.

"_What?"_ Kaltagonus' voice was dangerously low. He felt the restless stirring getting stronger, and he could make out words from the whispers in his mind. "Did you say 'adoption'?"

The elder Celestial blinked, his eyes wide and mortified before his broad shoulders slumped and his eyes fell closed. "Oh … _malakas_." He swore. (4)

This was definitely going to be a long day.

ooooo

When he threw the door open to the General's office, the first thing Kaltag had noticed was they were not alone. Both Spiridon and Eomel turned to the door, their hands automatically resting on their swords but dropping once they'd recognized him. That was the second thing Kaltagonus had realized: both men were in full Battalion regalia, helmets sitting on the wooden desk. Eomel bowed slightly after he'd entered before turning to Spiridon, who was staring at the redhead critically.

"Kaltagonus," he could hear the admonishment in the blue-eyed Celestial's tone. "You know better than to barge in here without invitation."

"We need to talk." He simply replied, leaning against the door with a scowl that would send Pickwhiggy fleeing to the nearest open room for safety.

"Don't you have a flight to catch?"

"Now."

"Can't it wait?"

"If it could, do you think I would be here?"

The General's face hardened in anger. "Manners," he hissed, eyes narrow slits.

"Well, you know us foster kids," the teenager resentfully (and purposefully) goaded. "The system hasn't the time to teach us proper manners."

Their eyes were deadlocked, neither blinking nor moving an inch to make the first move in front of the Brigadier. Spiridon's face was hard and rebuking, but Kaltag was determined. He wasn't about to let some strategy meeting take precedence over his freedom: damn it, the army could take a flying piss at a doughnut for all he cared.

"Go on," Spiridon said to the Celestial, his eyes never leaving the young Being. "We'll meet up at the Thracian barracks first. If I don't make it after the first inspection, we'll rendezvous at the Spartans'."

"Sir." Eomel gave a much deeper bow to the sable-haired General before exiting with a farewell to the redhead waiting at the door.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Kaltag's angry words were stalled when he felt a very mild shift in the wards to allow the third-in-command to depart. He'd never felt that before. Was that was Spiridon always felt when th—agh, who cared?

"Where the hell do you get off putting me up for adoption?"

The Celestial's brow knit together in perplexity for a fraction of a second before he sighed, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I swear, sometimes that boy is worse than Pandora."

"You had no right!"

The teenager didn't want to cringe beneath the weight of Spiridon's annoyed stare but was finding it hard not to. "To save face for your mother and the monarchy, I do. Our legal files go on record, did you know that?" He all but sneered, rounding the desk to move forward to the irate redhead. "If they wanted to review every legal document we've ever possessed, they would come across your papers for adoption. And that would raise unnecessary questions."

"Yes, God forbid they find out you refused to return me to Lily Potter's womb and obliterated her memory when she found out. Olympos' most decorated general — a womb raider!"

He could see with some disappointment that Spiridon was struggling not to rise to his baiting: his jaw was tense, eyes narrowed, and a thick vein jutted from his forehead up and down rapidly. "Severus has temporary guardianship of you with the intention to adopt—"

"Whoa! You never said _anything_ about him adopting me!" The blue-eyed Celestial spat. "I _do not_ need to be adopted!"

"—under human, discreet jurisdiction," the General resumed with a warning look. "No one would look there—until we can get this sorted out."

"'Sorted out'? What's to sort out?" The Being growled, crossing his arms gruffly over his cardigan. "I'm an adult."

"In age, nearly. Emotionally, however—"

"Would it have killed you to file for emancipation?"

"And leave you at the mercy of Mystikos? Especially with a mind as warped as your own?"

Kaltag didn't want to admit that it stung him to hear that. It wasn't as if he'd asked for his mind to be warped. He didn't ask for _any_ of this.

His face must have shown what he was thinking because the elder Being sharply sighed, rubbing his hands over his face and leaning on the back of the sofa. When he spoke, his voice was softer, weary. "According to Celestial law, you are not legal until you are nineteen—"

"So what's one year?"

"You are not fully adult until your thirties." He was losing his patience now, if the sternness in his tone was anything to go by.

Kaltagonus huffed. It was juvenile, bordering on temper tantrum, but he was willing to do anything to change the man's mind. "I'm still old enough to make my own decisions. Just let me stay with—with—Icarus, or someone until—"

"Until what? Until you murder them in your sleep?"

Kaltagonus opened his mouth to say what, not even he had an idea. But he did know that it hurt. A hot stab of fear burst in his chest at the thought of having a near miss with one of his friends. It would hurt worse than the nameless folks' murders he'd dreamt about. But his grief was soon outweighed by his annoyance.

"You can't keep me here forever." He whispered, eyes roving the room but not the General.

Spiridon stared at the angry youth carefully, staring. "Nor am I trying to," he said after quite some time. "But I cannot take that chance. What would happen if you'd turned on Icarus? Or Nikola, or Starbuck? How would you feel if you hurt Harry?"

A knot had taken residence where his heart had been. He didn't have to answer that. It had barely been ten days ago that he'd learned the truth that tied them together now, forever. He still didn't know his exact feelings for Harry—they were nowhere near as strong as his feelings for his sister—but he'd be nothing short of devastated if the beast harmed him. Or worse: if he himself harmed the Boy Who Lived.

Spiridon allowed him a moment of thought before gently saying, "I can't have you harm the defenseless or yourself, hence the adoption." Kaltagonus' face contorted nastily at the word. "The magical protection on the Snape name and home will be tricky in itself trying to keep Golradir on a tight leash, but it will cloak you from the Dark Lord and Mystikos.

"Furthermore," his soft gaze sharpened, his dark blue eyes seeming black now, "You know as well as I do emancipation is only granted in the direst of situations, and 'daddy lied to me' is not a valid argument for it."

Right away, those azure eyes flashed in exasperation. The barest sting of the cuff around his arm alerted him to the fact that his tattoo had begun to heat up. "Considering the caliber of what you've done, it would be!"

"The Blood Guardianship is nothing without the protection of a guardian," the General steadily replied, apparently refusing to get himself worked up. "Even with one, it would not hold up against the forces of Darkness. The adoption is necessary."

"Not to me!"

"This discussion is over," he snarled with finality, grabbing his helmet with burnished lion on the forehead in hand. "I refuse to talk about this further if you're going to remain hard-headed about your safety."

"Well, that's—"

"We'll discuss this when you're more amenable and when we're both free of prior obligation," the dark-eyed Celestial cut him off with a sharp look as he adjusted his uniform. "Right now, you have a plane to catch, and it would be in your best interests not to be late for Professor Snape."

The redheaded Being scowled, glaring at the General's sandals. He hated how that voice spurred him into submission, into defeat. At least he wouldn't have to obey it anymore. Not that he was any more thrilled he'd be obeying Snape from now on.

When they walked into the foyer, he noticed Daedelus had already brought his things down. Argentum gently _hoo'd_ from his perch, sharp eyes staring at him with a searching expression.

"There you are," Daedelus sighed with relief after greeting the General. "We'd better get going." Kaltagonus just stared mournfully at his owl.

"I wish I could accompany you, but I'm inspecting the armies of the city-states today," Spiridon needlessly stated. "Afterwards, I'll be meeting with … doesn't matter." He stopped, probably having seen the Being's blatant disinterest. "You've never liked him, anyway.

"Practice your crafts at Severus'," the General said instead, staring at the impassive teenager until his eyes lazily drifted to his. "I won't have you getting out of form because you are not here. I'll warn against using your forces, only in emergency. Also, you have an appointment with the sculptor for your _kouros_ on Monday early—don't be late. Keep your wand on you at all times; I know it's a strange habit, but it's crucial. And don't give Severus a hard time," he firmly warned. "Remember, this isn't easy for him, either."

"I'll bet."

Spiridon said nothing to that, but fell unusually quiet. There was a peculiar sheen to his eyes that Kaltagonus could not quite place, as he'd never seen that look on the man's face. Spiridon's chiseled features seemed to fall apart—with dignity, of course—and his eyes raked over Kaltag's face like a condemned man eyeing his last meal.

"I…" his throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed, but his eyes never left his. Kaltag's eyebrows lowered a bit. "You know that I love you."

There was a tightness in his throat, a knot he couldn't swallow. The Being's gaze was too hot, too intense, too bright for him to look at, and he looked at his shoes instead, unable to answer. If he were asked, the teen would say that his eyes stung because of allergy, though he had none of the sort.

But when he saw the General's arm leave his line of sight to rumple his hair affectionately, Kaltag couldn't help but react, jerking out of reach. He sighed softly and stared at his trunk. He didn't need to look at his face to know that hurt was written all over it. Forgiveness was still a long ways away for Spiridon, he realized.

Several tense moments passed before Daedelus broke the awkward pause with a throat clearing. "Er … come on. We'll be late if we don't leave _now_."

He nodded, leaving his heavier trunk for the Vice Admiral as he picked up Argentum's cage. He carefully avoided Spiridon's eyes as they shuffled toward the front door held open by the General. Kaltag vaguely wondered where their manservant was until he remembered it was Saturday—the day he went to market.

Daedelus had just stepped out of the house, Kaltagonus following slowly behind when he heard a shout from the landing. "Wait!"

In no time, her bright brown eyes were staring up into his. He thought she'd already left. Nikola bit her lip and cracked her knuckles, her form of fidgeting that seemed more like a threat, before she spoke. "I-I just wanted you to know," she smiled, a nervous chuckle weaving through her words, "there'll always be an empty towel beside me on the beach."

For the first time in several days, he smiled. She did, as well. Then he couldn't help but roll his eyes good-naturedly and mutter, "Pity?"

She laughed through her nose and leaned up to press a kiss to his lips, and with one last furrow of her brow, she was gone in a burst of wind.

ooooo

The ride to the airport was uneventful and silent, and they indeed arrived a few minutes late. When Daedelus left the car before him, Kaltag took that chance to spell himself numb, exiting the car in a light daze. He wasn't taking any chances with the beast unleashing itself while airborne. He'd missed the lesson.

In no time, they were in the air, making use of Smythe Enterprises' private jet. The takeoff had been too rocky for Kaltagonus' liking, and he'd clutched the armrests for dear life, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Scared?" He opened his eyes wider at the Vice Admiral when they'd leveled off and were sailing through the clouds. Not that he'd know, since his window shade was pulled down.

He'd airily laughed and shook his head sharply, fingernails leaving scuffs in the leather.

"I just don't like flying," he disclosed, swallowing as the plane dipped just a tad. "At least in a car, a boat, you have an escape strategy and a slightly higher chance of survival.

"But up here?" He jerkily shook his head. "If this plane goes down the only thing you can do is stick your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye." (5)

Daedelus had laughed loudly at that, prompting a confused look from Argentum.

The rest of the flight to Naples was quick and quiet, with Kaltag staring mostly at the carpet while Daedelus' eyes fixed on him the length of the fight. It appeared the man wanted to make sure he wouldn't be graced with a surprise visit from the Bellotaur several miles in the air, or so Kaltagonus thought.

They left the plane in haste, dashing to a helicopter from one of the General's many business partners for the chopper ride over the Bay of Naples to the lush island of Capri. When he dared to look, Kaltagonus spotted mountains and forests and vibrant villages in their shadows, as well as leisure and fishing boats. It was hard to believe the sour, snarling potion master lived somewhere as lively and handsome as Italy. A dark castle in Transylvania seemed more up his alley.

Kaltagonus scowled at the laughing Daedelus when the pilot unexpectedly began his descent and he'd grabbed his arm in surprise. He thought the man was either drunk or seriously mistaken, as they were surrounded by nothing but brilliantly blue water.

It wasn't until Daedelus pointed toward one of many white dots on the sea—not that the teenager dared to look—that Kaltag felt some of his anxiety ebbing. They touched down gently on a vast yacht, or as gently as one could be when the anchored ship moved with the tide. As much as Kaltagonus loved water, he loved land more. And he needed to get there. Fast.

They'd finally reached land after a jarring ride and many maneuvers around other ships and boats there, and Kaltag had to roll his eyes at the car awaiting them on the bustling pier bounded by picturesque villas, tourist-filled shops, greenery, and stretching coastlines. If he hadn't felt like he was in a spy novel, being shuffled around the last few hours as if he were the object of some government conspiracy (which, in reality, was true, considering Snape was adopting him the Mortal way to keep the Wizarding and Celestial governments from finding out the truth), he might have paused to appreciate the isle's beauty.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly—though it was only noon and the driver could talk Nikola into an early grave—and ignored Daedelus' worried looks. He supposed he was grateful the beast hadn't tried anything so far; not that that could be anything good. For all he knew, the Bellotaur was probably waiting in the wings, planning something awful.

By the time they'd reached the quaint town on the outskirts of a mountain, Kaltag had had a firm grip on his side, wand in hand, for a quarter of the hour. He wanted to be ready for anything.

All too soon the villas thinned out until only a stretch of road and forest was visible ahead, with the inviting blue sea to their right. Stately villas were few and far between as they continued, climbing partway up the mountain and deeper into forestland. When the forest was thick enough to blot out the sunny sky and the paved two-way road turned to a single-lane dirt path carved into the wood, the driver slowed down until he completely stopped. It was then Kaltagonus darted a glance to Daedelus before looking ahead, at a dark figure among the trees. But what he was drawn to were the equally dark eyes, shards of obsidian piercing through steel and glass and through him.

Snape. His heart dropped several inches, it felt like, since his cotton-dry throat couldn't hold it.

It was the clicks of Argentum's beak that brought him to the present, where Daedelus was sharply nudging him in the ribs. Kaltagonus swallowed again, this time to gain nerve, and pushed open his door, careful not to jar Argentum as he left the car. He didn't turn to see Snape right away, heading for the rear of the vehicle to help the driver (or at least pretend to) unload his luggage. By the time he'd slammed the door and stepped around to the back, the driver had already set his trunk aside and slammed the door, smiling at him and heading for the front again. He certainly wouldn't be getting a tip from him.

"Snape." Relief melted into his bones as Daedelus was the first one to address the sallow-skinned wizard. Kaltag feigned busying himself with checking his trunk and owl for any damage he knew wouldn't be there.

"Diomedes." The wizard's velvety voice was dampened by the press of flora on all sides in the leaf-shrouded vestibule, but the bored pitch was still apparent.

As Kaltag was pretending to study the silver feathers on Argentum's wing, he sensed the rise in tension in the woody air. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Snape and Daedelus still appeared to be talking, but he couldn't hear them. It was just as well: the last thing he wanted was to be enclosed with a bitter Snape all summer, stewing from the Vice Admiral's threats. The last thing he wanted was to stay with Snape … period.

"Kaltagonus." He turned at Daedelus' soft beckon, his eyes briefly flitting to the black of Snape's coat. He'd take any distraction now to delay going with him. Daedelus smiled, though it came off as more of a wince, resting his hand on Kaltag's shoulder. A warm hand. Warmed by blood. He thought he fingered his wand imperceptibly, but there was short-lived movement from Snape. His beady eyes were fixed on his hand. "This is where I leave you."

He nodded, one hand rubbing the gauze over the Lamia bite, the other fumbling with the hem of his cardigan. The soldier's eyes flicked over to the stoic Snape, and Kaltag could see the soft line of gentleness harden almost immediately. When he addressed the potion master, his tone was considerably colder. "Take care of him, Snape. It's your job to make sure—"

"I am fully aware of what that job entails, Diomedes." The silky voice spoke with an edge. His eyes moved briefly to rest on the soldier before returning to the young Being. Kaltag had looked away by then. "I am, you recall of course, the boy's godfather."

If Daedelus' hand hadn't squeezed his shoulder with such a heated hand, Kaltagonus might not have noticed how angry the soldier really was. "I don't like you, Snape. Never have, never will," he hissed, eyes narrowing. "But this is my boy you've got here, godson or no. Whatever happens to him concerns me, no matter who his godfather is."

Had the situation not been so depressing, the redhead would've swelled with pride.

If he had been looking, Kaltagonus would have seen the potion master's eyes flash in annoyance. But instead, his attention was diverted to his restless fingers wreaking havoc on the hem of his sweater. Anything but Snape. _Everything_ but Snape. Anything but the warm, blood-filled hand on his shoulder. He needed to spell himself—fast.

He did look up sharply when Daedelus had bodily turned to him, both hands on his shoulders now. Warm. Pulsing. Expressive brown eyes looked down into his, searching, for what, Kaltagonus didn't know where to begin. "If—" he stopped short, throwing a glance over his shoulder before lowering his voice and pulling him marginally closer. Closer to warmth. He almost shut his eyes to indulge in it.

"_If you need anything,"_ he started again, but this time in Greek. Kaltag did manage a momentary peek over at Snape. He thought he saw the man's lips purse tighter and was vaguely confused. Didn't Snape speak the language? Not that he cared, of course. Daedelus was speaking again. "_Anything at all, I'm only—"_

"_A country away."_ He replied in kind with a short nod.

The Vice Admiral smiled crookedly, freeing one hand to cup the Being's pouting chin between hardened, hot, pink-tinged fingers. He could feel the fabric of his jumper stretching around his wand as sluggish blood pounded against the soldier's fingertips on his chin. "_I mean it."_

"I know." He answered raggedly in English.

Daedelus didn't immediately release him from his embrace but took a moment to study his face, his eyes ending on his soft blue orbs. "_You'll be fine, I think." _Before long Daedelus tilted his face and pressed a brief kiss to his temple (with warm but dry lips), pulling him into a hug (_so warm_). It was a gesture only meant for use between fathers and sons. "Never too old for a kiss." He whispered into his ear, amused.

Despite the detached, unpleasant circumstances, Kaltagonus smirked at the sincerity in the man's voice. "You're far too soft to be Spartan." He mildly teased, stepping out of the soldier's warm embrace (was it him or did the temperature drop several degrees?), his hand closed around his wand now. Daedelus needed to leave and _now_.

He threw one last warning look at Snape before smiling at Kaltagonus and stepping back into the car. He waved from the window as they backed out, turned with some difficulty, and drove off into the distance. They were alone. He was alone with Snape. Just the two of them.

_**O how soon ye forget.**_

Damn it! He hadn't spelled himself all that long ago, had he? Apparently so, if the damned parasite was back to his old tricks again.

Fortunately—not that he'd ever admit it out loud—Snape's presence proved to be distraction enough. The wizard didn't bother to acknowledge him. Snape simply flung out his wand, spun it in the direction of his trunk and tucked it away. His luggage shrunk to the size of a match box and it was then he realized—after a moment of panic and indignation—that Snape had shrunk his things for him to carry them. "Oh," he articulately replied as he bent over to pick it up. "Th—"

"You can set free your owl in a few minutes. Follow me, and keep up. If you lag behind, I will not come find you." He snapped, setting up the path, which had significantly narrowed, the lowest tree branches shaping into leafy awnings letting in very little sunlight. He could hear the crash of waves on rocks and cliffs in the distance.

Kaltagonus scowled at the rude greeting, grabbing up a chagrined Argentum's cage. If this was how Snape was going to act, this was certainly going to be a long summer. At least he didn't have the responsibility to entertain them with idle talk. God only knew how that would've gone.

'_So do you hate me as much as I hate you?' _

'_Enormously.' _

'_Brilliant! What's for dinner?'_

If there was anything he needed to know, he was going to figure it out for himself; it looked like he'd actually get his chance, from what Nikola had been spouting of freedom. He would make it _his_ summer, _his_ time to take control of his life. He wouldn't ask Snape about anything or for anything, lest he get the sudden inspiration to murder him in the forest that looked as if it hadn't seen civilization for a few decades.

_**Without a doubt, he'll be the first one to go.**_

And before Kaltagonus pulled out his wand to extinguish the maddened Bellotaur, he contemptuously muttered, "Not if I get there first."

oooooooooo

* * *

(1) _Ouzo_ is a colorless aniseed-flavored drink from Greece.

(2) "Braver man" taken from DH page 625, though reworded. I'll just go cry now...

(3) _Ti kanis_ – an English spelling of the phrase – means 'how are you' in Greek. Thanks to the travel Simple Phrases site for that.

(4) _Malakas_ could be the English equivalent of 'sonuvabitch!', among other things.

(5) Quote taken from the movie _Drive_. Never saw it, but heard it from my bro-in-law.

* * *

(1) _Ouzo_ is a colorless aniseed-flavored drink from Greece. 

(2) 'Braver man' taken from DH page 625, though reworded. I'll just go cry now...

(3) _Ti kanis_ – an English spelling of the phrase – means 'how are you' in Greek. Thanks to the Simple Expressions Greek travel site.

(4) _Malakas_ could be the English equivalent of the idiomatic expressions 'shit' or 'sonuvabitch!', among other things.

(5) Quote taken from the movie _Drive_. Never saw it, but heard it from my bro-in-law.

* * *

**A/N**: Incredibly sorry it took so long: it's been a long two months, but at least we've reached direct contact between Snape and Tag. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think! 

**A/N **2: I'm actually thinking ahead for once: is there anyone out there who is fluent in Italian? It'd help a great deal for some future scenes and you'd of course be credited for your assistance. Let me know if you're interested.


	4. 4: The Wizard and I and I, Pt III

**The Best Intentions**

**Disclaimer:** Whatever you've never heard of belongs to me. As for all else . . . one can only make empty wishes . . . .

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_Am I? – Inward thoughts._

_**Kill it.**__ – Golradir thought-speech._

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**Warning**: Again, I remind you this _is not_ a **Harry Potter-centric** story.

-

**Four**: The Wizard and I (And I), Pt. III

ooooo

Twenty minutes into his stay with Snape and Kaltagonus was seriously contemplating pitching the foul git off the nearest cliff. They'd cleared the forest ages ago, and paused only to let Argentum loose and shrink his cage.

The little traitor had flapped off, never looking back, apparently grateful to leave him to his own devices. Kaltagonus toyed with the idea of turning him into a feather duster: he seriously deserved it for abandoning him to tramp the woods with _Snape_.

Now, they were climbing a rough landscape complete with a craggy path. A long, mildly steep, craggy path.

A path up a mountain. Somehow, Snape had failed to mention that. Not that he'd spoken more than nine words since their trek. Up a _mountain._ The path would've been a relatively easy one—he could see it led straight up into the mountain—but Snape kept veering off the path and leading them in swerving, seemingly off-the-cuff directions. At the moment, Loony Lovegood was looking more sensible and lucid than he was, and _that_ was saying something.

He seriously hoped there was a method to his madness, else he'd fling himself off the foothill and put himself out of his misery. Then again, the sharp new smells, and sometimes jarring noises of a hidden village off to the left of them kept his mind on alert. More and more he was thinking of breaking their unspoken agreement to not speak, as they didn't seem to be nearing their destination sooner.

"Bloody mountain," he jeered under his breath, tasting the salty air. He was used to that at least, living in Greece all these years and attending school in the middle of the Aegean. What he wasn't used to was hiking: the one elective they failed to offer at Aripedes. As he rubbed at the muggy gauze on his neck, he groused, "Who came up with the bright idea to build villas on mountains anyway?"

"Cliff."

"What?" Kaltagonus piercingly stared at the man's back, wondering if he'd just heard voices on the waves. Wouldn't be the first time he had heard voices...

However, Snape did say, "I said, it's a sea cliff; not a mountain." Snape stepped on a large gray stone that vaguely resembled a step, veering off to the left through grass and shrub. He glanced back at the Being with a cautionary look before continuing their ascent.

"Rather big for a cliff," the redhead mumbled, wiping his forehead on a sleeve and scratching at the silver cuff, sticky from sweat, clinging to his arm. (If hadn't melded to his skin before this heat, it certainly had, now.) After another minute of silence—where he fervently argued with himself inwardly, he went on, "I was wondering if we were getting any closer. Sir." He tacked on, just in case Snape decided to throw him off the mountain—_excuse me: cliff,_ for lack of respect. "And is there a village over there I can hear?"

_What happened to not asking him any questions?_

Kaltagonus told his inner voice, in no kinder words, to sit on a stick, and twist.

The professor grunted, whether from fatigue or nuisance, and continued—another veer, to the right this time—without answering. As he expected. The man wasn't obligated to entertain his questions, or him, for that matter. It came as an utter shock to him—he nearly tripped on an old branch in the middle of the trail—when Snape's deep voice answered him.

"There is a village upward and east," he replied, voice punctuated by strange distant beating, "though the footpath to it is on the other side of the overhang. It crosses this one on the way to the villa. Quit dawdling and keep up."

Kaltag licked the sweat off his upper lip and renewed his step after hearing of the house. At least he knew it existed: at least, according to Snape's twisted mind. "Speaking of which, where is it … sir? And why do we have to hike up a mount—er, cliff to get there? Surely, magic would have been easier."

"We _are_ using magic, you daft boy."

"What?' He huffed now, brow lowered as he rubbed his ear and chuckled loftily. "Mayb—maybe the altitude's gone to your head, professor." It was somewhat rude, but he didn't care. Did he mention he was _climbing a mountain?_ (He wasn't stupid enough to believe a cliff could cause his legs to ache and his head to feel like it was in a vise this much.) "I think I'd know if we were using magic."

The Potions Master sighed in exasperation, a scowl marring his face when he turned dark eyes toward the Being. "Perhaps the altitude must be getting to you, instead. Open your eyes, boy. Look around you."

Kaltag arched an eyebrow at the professor's sharp reproach. Was the man blind? Could he not see that they were surrounded by rock and stone and plants? And on a bloody _mountain?_ "Right," the sarcasm befell his voice thoughtlessly. "We're in a _very_ magical place, this m—_cliff_. And the hills are alive, too, I bet."

"If you would shut that yawping mouth of yours and do as I say," the warning curled out of his mouth like a snake readying to strike, "perhaps you would notice that the hills are indeed alive."

At this, the redhead froze mid-step, narrowed eyes watching the wizard's robes flapping in the light breeze. He didn't really expect him to believe that, did he? He'd certainly notice something as disconcerting as the mountain … _living_. He pulled at his ear again: was that what he was hearing: the pulsation of old magicks at work? Unlikely, and dubious, at best.

"Sir, did you happen to inhale henbane or mandrake powder from a potion today?" He ignored Snape's snort of disbelief and went on. "Because there is no way this—"

"Watch where you're going! The last thing I need is your infuriating father breathing down my neck over your demise." He snarled, startling Kaltag from setting his foot in a deep furrow.

"What? Oh." He bypassed the trough to take the next step upward. "As I was saying, we can't—possibly … be using..." He stuttered to a halt, staring down at the ground beneath him. When had they started using stairs? Carefully, the Being turned around to stare at the path behind him. It took everything he had to keep his jaw from dropping.

What was once Snape's deviating, rock-strewn path was now a dusty gray stairwell leading up the side of the cliff in a sweeping trail. Every jagged tread was now a smooth gray step, and he turned to watch Snape's tread. Every footfall had produced a flat step. "Oh, my God; the hills _are_ alive … with Glamour Spells."

"Not a complete dunderhead, then … not for lack of trying." Snape threw back to him, his previous threat spurring Kaltagonus on as the gap widened between them. "If you have failed to notice as well, we are more than three-quarters to our destination in under half an hour: it takes approximately six hours on and off the beaten path to climb this precipice. Those who know where to look, however…"

"More than three-quar—so where's the house, then?" Kaltagonus ponderingly asked, unbuttoning his sweater and the top of his dress shirt. "Don't tell me we climbed all these bloody stairs to camp out on top of a damn mountain for two months," he sneered, his frustration getting the better of him. The drumming was incessant now, louder and pounding dully in his ear; he could almost count the beats aloud, and he thought he'd heard a weird suction noise as well.

Snape gave a disgusted, impatient sigh. "Though I cannot even _begin_ to fathom how you've been named Alpha Caelestis for six years straight—since you don't seem to have one modicum of common sense in your body or your obscene tongue," Kaltag bristled a bit at this, "I shall only suffice it to say, you're not looking hard enough, Smythe."

"Pfft!" The redhead scoffed, ire spurred by the man's animosity and the rhythm in his head and he raced up the path to fall in step with the man, forcing Snape to look him in the eyes. Snape stopped, albeit angrily at having been interrupted, and frowned heavily at him, glaring. The Being took a quick look at the mountain peak and then looked back at Snape, pointing to the mountaintop.

"Well, _Professor_, I'm looking hard enough. And you want to know what I see? I see this massive peak at the top that looks in no way, shape, or form like a house." He growled, chest heaving. Snape's eyebrow curved over his left eye, his eyes thinning in irritation. But Kaltag didn't care. He was developing quite the headache, was rather flustered, and this wizard must have mixed the wrong ingredients in his potions today if he was seeing houses atop bare mountain peaks. "I'm telling you, all I see is—"

And suddenly, the rest of the gray stairs leading up the cliff revealed themselves until the bare, stony cliff top gleamed in the sunlight, bringing a sandy villa into view. Kaltagonus swallowed. He could almost feel the weight of Snape's smirk pressed on the back of his head. He'd give anything to be able to wipe it off without being charged for assault. He pursed his lips, hand flopping limply his side.

He really hated magic. And Snape. And whoever was drumming in the distance. And mountains that passed themselves off as _cliffs_.

Kaltag opened his mouth once, but nothing came out. Then, "Where the hell did _that_ come from?" his tone was high-pitched and screechy, like Argentum's when he'd been told to deliver the letter to Ella earlier this week. Kaltag swung his bewildered face in Snape's direction, spotting tightly sealed lips and eyes narrowed into slits.

"Language," was all he scolded, before bypassing the puzzled Celestial. Maybe the altitude was getting to him. Or maybe he hadn't spelled himself correctly the last time.

"Go ahead of me and follow the path—if you can see it, that is." The professor jeered the last words, causing the teenager to glower fiercely.

"I can see your little magic trick just fine," he gruffly countered, marching over tufts of grass to pass the Potions Master.

"Good," he sharply replied. "Wouldn't dream of having the little prince—quite content to nag a poor soul to death themselves," Kaltag's blood boiled at his patronizing pitch, "unexpectedly plunging to his doom because he couldn't keep his feet. That would certainly put unnecessary constraint on my life."

The Being's head twisted sharply at Snape's words, confusion clouding his mind. Snape—sad about his death? Where was the _Daily Prophet_ when he needed it?

But the sour wizard's face upturned beneath his curtain of black, greasy hair, gleaming in the sun, in a cruel, mocking smirk. "I meant having your relentless sire breathing down my neck all the time for your untimely demise, of course."

The redhead's expression flattened. "Well, you're just a regular beacon of optimism, aren't you?" He sneered back, purposely kicking loose stones into Snape's path.

As they neared the top, Kaltag noted the villa looked quite alone on the high cliffs, a far stretch from the village path they'd crossed. Snape had retaken the lead at this junction and pulled out his wand, waving something at the solid stone impasse they'd reached, and muttering something under his breath, something Italian.

Kaltag really hoped this was a shortcut; the unremitting pounding had slowed over the last few minutes, but now, it had quickened. He wanted to find a bed and soon, if only to lie down and rest his head, not sleep. No, he definitely wasn't going to sleep, not any time soon.

He rubbed his head, lowering it, and closed his eyes against the stifled drumming and Snape's silky chanting, opening them quickly as he felt the air shift. It was a sharp, jarring shift, almost like a door sealed for years and years suddenly opening. Narrowing his eyes at his shoes, he raised his head to see if Snape had felt anything different as well.

But the stone before them suddenly vanished, seeming like a film, and he watched the stone depress rapidly before their very eyes, carving itself out by years of erosion to reveal a short, arching grotto entry with in-wall sconces and candles. More Glamours. Kaltag vaguely wondered if the entire mountain-cliff, village included, was one, big, Snape-constructed Glamour.

"How is your Italian?"

The redhead blinked, surprised at the question. He was vaguely astonished the wizard knew such a thing. Nevertheless he answered, "A bit rusty." He couldn't help but add, "Unless we're going to a pub."

Snape's icy glare? _Priceless._

They marched through the passageway silently, Kaltag yanking his hand back when he felt aged dust and cobwebs along the walls and were met with a lengthy stairway up a stony hill. From there, Kaltagonus could see the villa better, as it seemed the short walk through the hideaway had brought them several meters closer.

He didn't know what he was expecting, really. Maybe a portcullis and a drawbridge and a few hideous trolls hiding beneath it, pestering for toll. Oddly enough in his mind, the trolls resembled Snape: overlarge hooked noses with matted, greasy hair and warts over every inch of their face. He shuddered and nearly ran into Snape, who stopped short at the foot of the steps to the house, wand in the air, making a complex motion.

"As I suspected," he said with the air of one sampling wines. "The wards have weakened radically enough over the years from disuse. Enough for Apparition, at any rate."

The Being couldn't stop his jaw from nearly hitting the ground, brow furrowed, incredulous. "You tell me this _after_ the 140-mile hike?"

Snape simply ignored him and began climbing the stairway. Furious, Kaltag pursed his lips and followed behind, his hand itching to grab his wand and accidentally levitate the wizard over his bloody cliff.

The higher they climbed, the more details Kaltag started to notice on the house. The villa was decent, much smaller than Themys, but was unquestionably more than what Snape could afford on a teacher's salary. From its somewhat dated look, Kaltag deduced Snape had probably inherited it through family. The entire place looked relatively old, however, the ivy vines that crept along the villa walls, archway, and veranda railings and the low stone fence quite telling, except for a small area facing the dramatic drop to the ocean.

It looked somewhat newer, encased in glass windows, it seemed, and a sharp concave, angular dome jutting out of the roof. A skylight, it seemed. A solarium. Kaltagonus felt a pang of resentment course through him: that had been where Spiridon had brought them: he, Starbuck and Nikola, those many nights ago. Where their memories had been erased.

Where Snape had refused to adopt him.

"Keep up, boy!"

He blinked, startled out of his unnerving reverie by Snape's ire. The man's face was set in stone, an angry one at that, his mouth forming a line of impatience. It was enough to stamp out any lazy creatures of resentment stirring within him. "If you are quite finished daydreaming?"

The Being opened his mouth to reply nastily, but closed it, following the man back up the path. There would be time enough later to wind Snape up; he'd make sure of that. Right now, he just wanted to find a quiet place to rid himself of the pounding headache: it had become worse now, and he could almost count them separately.

At a bend in the slope, Kaltagonus could see the back of the house facing another forest, probably full of potion ingredients. Or monsters. And with Snape, the latter was more likely than the former.

All too soon, they were in the shadow of the aged villa, Snape booting open the old wrought-iron gate, crossing through dead lawn on a path—which Kaltag could tell was once a handsome walkway with immaculate tile and mosaic, now grimy, caked with probably a decade or so of dust and dirt—and bypassing a greenish yard statue centerpiece to the ivy-covered stone archway with wand aloft and lips moving softly against the gentle breeze. Though decidedly old, the area absolutely buzzed with power.

Kaltag froze on the first step, hands clenched at his sides, blue gaze appraising the stone structure before his eyes; he thought he saw the ivy twitch, but it was probably just the wind. This was it. Any minute now, Snape would open that door, and it would be official: he would no longer be in Spiridon's control. He would no longer, no matter what Snape's wards or blood promises offered, feel safe. He was essentially on his own, through no fault of his own, or at least, that was what he kept telling himself.

The front door unlocked with an audible click, opening with a dull groan akin to that of a dying man. Snape had put his wand away and stepped in without further explanation. Taking a fortifying breath—which he'd told himself was more for his headache than his nerves—Kaltagonus took one step forward, and then another, and another, until he crossed the threshold and into Snape's territory.

A fusty scent assaulted his nostrils, harsher than he expected, and he breathed sharply through his nose, shaking his head. Obviously Snape hadn't spent much time here, which threw him as odd. The stairwells were the first things to grab his attention, the one in front of him going down and the one right alongside it ascending into a long corridor with rooms on each side, it seemed. The house looked much bigger inside than it had from outside; more than likely by magic. A dusty oil lamp provided dim lighting on the small landing of the foyer, and below it had a number of bare hooks for cloaks.

There wasn't much else to the entrance, the landing-foyer a small dully-polished square fit for holding brief, impersonal conversations and not much more than three people at a time. Kaltagonus had shifted to the corner farthest from a scrutinizing Snape, and even that hadn't left more than a yard of space between them.

"Well?" He startled from craning his neck to see into one of the upstairs rooms, turning to the sour-looking Potions Master. His dark eyes glimmered with disdain. Kaltag merely raised an eyebrow in his direction and shook his head, frowning. "Close the door, boy; what are you, daft?"

Brow furrowing, Kaltagonus crossed his arms and held his ground, a scowl taking residence on his face. "I'm sorry: I didn't realize I was wearing a sign that said 'personal house-elf, free to a good home'," he jibed, ignoring the thrumming inside his skull.

"You insufferable little menace."

Snape's eyes narrowed even further, his pale cheeks getting a light dusting of color, and his hand twitched as if to reach for his wand, which only caused Kaltag's headache to worsen, the deadened beats now separating into singular, harsh thrums. And suddenly, his eyes widened with realization: he remembered now. Those muddled, wet throbs weren't from a headache.

"…if you have the gall to think I will be tolerable of such _insolence_, you've another thing coming, boy…" the Potions Master was saying, but Kaltag could only stare at the purple vein on his temple: throbbing, pulsing, fluctuating like a balloon, beating … beating like...

… Like Snape's heart. It was Snape's heartbeat. Eighty beats per minute. Ninety-two, when he was upset, as he was speaking in clipped tones now, but he couldn't hear him, as if someone turned the sound off somehow. He swallowed, ire melting away from him as Snape went on: he needed to spell himself _now_. He was just now noticing the ominous tingling from the strange silver band on his wrist. It seemed to have been going on for a while now, because his wrist felt numb and nerveless. Nevertheless, he still needed to get away.

" … you'd better listen well, because I will only say this _once:_ I will not stand for _any_ disrespect while … "

God … five minutes inside and he was already getting a lecture. He could already smell the scent of Snape's blood pumping in anger beneath his spitting mouth and perspiration and even under the overpowering smell of mountain ash. Disturbingly enough, he found it intoxicating. He'd never had a cauldron master before, probably because they tended to smell strange.

But not Snape: he smelled sharply of sweat and hawthorn and sunflowers, and that would seem a bit odd, because he never pictured Snape as one to enjoy flowers, and he almost smiled at the thought: Snape and flowers! Preposterous! He could care less about that, not with all that blood rushing through Snape's body, the sound of it roaring past his ears, he could already taste it, hot on the air...

Kaltagonus froze, eyes widening to saucer-like proportions.

" … an impudent brat because of who your father is, does not give you the privilege to talk down to _me,_ boy…!"

_**Wow.**_ _**He certainly sounds upset.**_

" … do you hear me, boy? Are you even _listening_?"

_**Don't fight me this time, boy: you know you want him as dead as I do.**_

The sight of Snape sputtering in his face, left eye twitching and vein pounding and moving at the top of his head like a purple snake was fading, a golden fog now misting over his vision and mind again. He gasped, but it didn't sound past his lips, catching, dying in his throat and choking him.

_**That's right: don't fight me.**_

But even if he wanted to, he couldn't. He couldn't move, couldn't reach for his wand, couldn't warn Snape, who had stopped shouting now and was staring at him curiously, brow lowered. He didn't know; God, he didn't know he was about to die!

_"Smythe…"_

His blood sang now, with anger, with fever, with unrest and a breathlessness that he couldn't put into words. It was intoxicating. It was invigorating. It was enthralling. But he couldn't get it. All he needed to do was give in to the Bellotaur and he would feel that electrifying thrill one more time.

He was besieged by the fog, thick and gold, chilled to his bones; he couldn't even see the cauldron master anymore—Snape? Was that his name? They usually didn't give names to their prey—and he could feel that sharp stab in his chest, willing him to just give in...

A loud screech pierced through the golden fog like a bright beacon, like warmth, like the sun. Suddenly, a warm weight was on his shoulder, sharp and squeezing, and there were words, silent but slowly going up in volume—someone was talking to him, someone in front of him. He felt soft bats to the back of his head, something velvety was almost carding through his hair, and he heard a firm '_hoo'_ somewhere above him. But the words, they were louder now, spitting at him like flame on wood, and he could see again, the mist was clear, and that iron hand was back and tugging, hard, grip firm yet faltering.

" … that bird in a cage. I will not have that pillow flying freely about this house! Are you _listening to me, boy?_"

Only when he was positive danger had been averted did he face the Potions Master. He was almost relieved to see the harsh lines of Snape's face again, his black eyes goring him like the horns of a bull, but wordlessly promising to do a great deal more damage than one. He felt another squeeze to his shoulder and something sharp was pinching him there as well, digging into his skin, and a flutter of feathers brushed his neck.

Kaltagonus peered up to his left shoulder and met the striking amber stare of Argentum, wings spread and wafting cool air over him as he balanced. He absently raised a hand to run his fingers through Argentum's silvery down, soothing more himself than his owl, his other hand skimming down his side to feel for his wand. He'd need to spell himself as soon as possible, maybe when Snape turned his back.

Speaking of Snape, Kaltag slowly tore his eyes from his familiar and met those of the Potions Master. As expected, he didn't look in the least bit amused.

The professor's lips were pursed tightly, almost white with force as he glared down at him. He looked as if he didn't know whether to throttle him or hurl oaths. Kaltag lowered his brow, hand fixed over his wand, daring him to try. Even Argentum gave a low, warning hoot and clamped tighter down on his shoulder.

Before Snape could even open his mouth, a loud 'crack!' echoed through the house, making Argentum squawk in indignation as both Kaltagonus and Snape looked down at the noise that sounded below them.

While Kaltagonus had never encountered any of the invisible house-elves at Hogwarts, he had learned a great deal about them from Harry's brief explanation and Hermione's long-winded lecture, most of which involved some waffle about spewing or some other. From what he'd heard, their faces were just as diverse as humans, but overall, they were thin and gaunt (and in Hermione's case, miserable, oppressed, maltreated, and so on). In essence, he was prepared for any house-elf encounters. But he certainly was not prepared for _this_.

First of all it was … decidedly round about the middle—well, he'd just say it: _fat_; large belly stretching the fabric of the yellowed pillowcase fashioned like a tunic two sizes too small. It had huge, bat-like floppy ears, dark eyes, grayish skin, a coarse tuft of white hair on its wart-spotted forehead, and a squashed nose that looked as if it had met the wrong end of a wall or door one time too many. A fat house-elf: who'd have thought those existed? Argentum gave a warbling hoot that sounded vaguely like a chortle in Kaltag's ears.

It brought up a pudgy hand to wipe its arm across its wide mouth—Kaltagonus thought he saw crumbs roll off the belly to hit the floor—and bent in a sweeping bow to Snape. "_Maestro_," he grunted, voice gravelly and sounding definitely aloof. Large eyes stared out the open doorway before he slothfully moved to shut the door with a thick '_slam'_, disturbing a light cloud of dust. "How can Stout serve _Maestro_ Snape, sir?"

Snape stared down his hooked nose at the house-elf and aloofly greeted, "Stout."

Kaltag couldn't help the snort that bubbled out of his throat. Snape's sharp eyes were on him in an instant. "Stout?" he couldn't stop himself from saying. "I imagine that's short for 'stuck-out'? Or, let me guess: he's big-boned, right?" (1)

Naturally, Snape did not look amused. Even the house-elf grumbled something in Italian. "Let us get a few things straight, boy: contrary to your pretentious beliefs, I will not fawn over you and worship the ground you walk on." He darkly began, voice as cold as his eyes.

_More's the pity, _he lazily mused, face struggling to affect a mask of boredom.

"You are a guest in this house, and nothing more. I did not extend an invitation to you, so spare yourself and myself from entertaining such idiotic fancies. Unfortunately, due to your sheer stupidity, I have no choice but to deal with you. In consequence, you will stay here until you depart in August and then I will be beside myself with glee." He said this with such a stoic air that Kaltagonus knew it was impossible for the man to feel any such emotion. "Until then, you are to keep to yourself and away from me.

"Breakfast will be served until 9:45. Lunch is at 1:00 PM. Supper is at 6:30. You will show up for at least one of these meals so your exasperating father will not accuse me of starving you, and as well, I have no desire to stare at your intolerable face for more than ten minutes. All of your summer work will be done using your books, as I refuse to give you any permission to use my library.

"As such, you have access only to your rooms and bathrooms, all rooms on the first floor, with the exception of the potions supply closet. On the ground floor _everything_—including the library, my office and its Floo network—is off limits with the exception of the music room. Use it only to practice your craft and nothing else. On the topmost floor, everything but the bathroom and your quarters are off limits to you. You are to be in your room by ten o'clock, and you will not be allowed to come and go as you please." Kaltagonus bristled at the thought of a curfew, narrowing his eyes.

"Your quarters are to be kept neat, as you are a guest. You will have no other guests over unless approved; though you can forget about inviting anyone over at all, as I do not entertain guests myself. Limit your post, and you will not spend your time dawdling. You are to be productive, of go back to Greece to your father."

This caused Kaltagonus to swallow thickly and lance the sallow professor with a glare. Threatening him with Spiridon was indeed low, even for him.

"And last, but no less important: absolutely _no_ magic."

Kaltag's eyes widened fractionally, before slitting somewhat. Hadn't Spiridon told him about … the Bellotaur? How did he expect him to stay in control if he couldn't spell himself? Was the man begging to be killed in his sleep?

Snape resumed his forewarning in crisp tones. "You will be so silent that a _graveyard_ would seem like teeming stands at a Quidditch match. Are we clear?"

Argentum hooted in displeasure, talons tearing bigger holes in his cardigan as the Being glared at the Potions Master. Kaltagonus took umbrage as well, face marred with a scowl, ten shades of fuming. He was starting to second guess the hold the invisible grip had on the beast … Snape was certainly asking for it.

"Any questions?" the professor drawled down at him, black eyes daring him to contest as he crossed his arms threateningly.

Regarding the professor with cool eyes, he boldly replied, "One: do you…" Kaltagonus paused and swallowed, wetting his lips. Part of him couldn't believe what he was about to ask, given the entire sermon Snape had piled on him a minute ago, but he couldn't help but ask, "Do you need any help with potions? Brewing and such?" he tacked on after an awkward stint of silence. He cursed himself for sounding so docile.

But Snape quickly quelled that, bringing forth his anger once more by curtly sighing and replying, "Of course not." His rationalization was low and disdainful: "Remember this always: you are not wanted here, and were never intended to be here … ever. Had your little tantrum at Themys not forced your father's hand, this situation would never be in effect. Furthermore, the last thing I need is an unqualified, inept boy blowing up my manor and hindering my potion-making."

He didn't know why, but those words cut him, almost as if Snape had actually knifed him in the chest. He could feel the warning sting of the cuff around his wrist and the invisible hand ready to hold him back as his rage for a split second was unleashed, his world turning fuming gold and red. His owl beat his wings and screeched at an indifferent Snape, who merely arched an eyebrow at him before turning to the blue-eyed redhead.

Kaltagonus managed to hiss out past the fury, "Figured I wouldn't be worth your time."

The lank-haired professor released an annoyed breath and moved toward the descending stairway, brushing past the rapt house-elf. "I do not have the patience to deal with the unmatched angst of puberty. Deal with it on your own time, and until August 22nd, stay out of my way."

His robes swished through the air like a falling sword, whipping round to smack the house-elf in the face. "Be in the dining room for supper by 6:30. Stout will show you to your quarters."

Robes puffing up behind him like a great storm cloud, Snape was gone, the heels of his boots clicking on the ground floor and away, Kaltag glaring daggers into his retreating back the entire way. The invisible restraint on the Bellotaur seemed to have strengthened tenfold, its heavy hold settling uncomfortably in his chest.

Seconds later he was drawn from glowering at Snape's back, down to the displeased gaze of the house-elf, Stout, who was tugging on the leg of his trousers with a wrinkled hand. He made a grunting noise and waddled up the other set of stairs to the first floor and down the hall. Glancing one last time down the dim corridor Snape had withdrew to, Kaltag grabbed the handrail and followed Stout into the rest of the house.

Argentum flapped away as soon as the floor was eye-level, landing on the sill of one of the double windows in a large empty space to his right. Kaltag reached the landing to the first floor, scanning it warily. The musty smell was a bit stronger he noticed, and he could see layers of dust coating the floors and some dead potted plants in the corridor. Either both Snape and Stout hadn't lived here in some years, or the elf had been stuffing his face more than he was working.

The first floor resembled one long corridor, with open entryways leading into various rooms. As he followed Stout, Kaltagonus peeked into some of them as they passed: there was one room on his immediate right that looked like a sitting room, a dusty set of Gobstones sitting on its coffee table. It looked like the game had stopped mid-play. Stout grunted from down the hall and he'd absently realized he had paused to stare.

He passed another room with shabby cloths covering what looked like several large paintings and antiques, and the walls themselves were dark and discolored in the areas where the paintings had probably hung. The drawing room with the moth-eaten rug led into the dining room, and there were two closed doors finishing off the left side of the corridor, the small door probably leading off to Snape's forbidden ingredients closet; Kaltag had to snort at the memory of the man's speech. Finally, ahead, there was a wall perpendicular to the corridor which had a door ajar, the dim light gleaming off a toilet. On his right and left respectively was an open nook with windows and a table, and another, much longer, stairwell, leading up into darkness.

Swallowing thickly, Kaltagonus climbed, heart thudding harder in his chest with each footfall, and his hand still clamped on his hip, where he could feel the warmth vibrating from his wand as he followed Stout's squat figure up the steps. He could see nothing beyond the darkness of the top floor, and wondered about that. With all the windows he'd passed on the first floor, it was startling to encounter darkness on what was obviously the floor that housed the bedrooms.

Finally, he reached the landing, and was relieved to see bright light casting eerie shadows on the grimy floor from beneath several doorways. Stout's feet slapped on ahead, and he trailed behind, glancing down the longer corridor to his right, leading to several closed (and forbidden) doors.

He was completely unprepared for a blinding, brilliant light incapacitating him when Stout pushed open the door in front of them. The house-elf then toddled back from the threshold, gesturing for him to enter first with a despondent expression. Warily, Kaltagonus entered, but before his eyes adjusted to the light, they went wide with disbelief.

The room was … well, it was nothing short of spectacular. Three out of the floor walls were floor to ceiling windows, complete with a short terrace on one, giving him an incredible view of the sea surrounding the villa cliffs. Gone was the basinet and tiny bed from memory and in its place sat a stripped bed, nestled against the fourth wall beneath the single window to his right, and to his left was a folding door, of which he recalled led to a closet.

Various other furnishings completed the quarters, but he would examine everything later. His gaze was now fixed on the angular dome jutting out of the ceiling, displaying the vivid afternoon sky with wispy clouds skirting past. What a view! His room was fantastic! And to think, that Snape...

He bitterly swallowed, suddenly crashing down from cloud nine back to reality, dropping his eyes to the bare floors. He wasn't welcome here: he was only a guest. This wasn't his room, and he was awfully stupid to even think that for a minute. Snape didn't want him here. He rolled his bottom lip in his mouth and reminded himself of that several times. He wasn't welcome; Snape hated him; he didn't even want to be there either. Kaltagonus frowned, keeping his gaze on the floor and not the view that his eyes were pleading to devour.

Unwanted: that's what he needed to tell himself. Here without invitation: Snape was only showing him what he couldn't have, trying to make him suffer by giving him such an enticing room with a view. Well, then. There was only one thing left to do.

Kaltagonus breathed heavily through his nose and glared out at the choppy waves stretching for miles and miles, allowing a small smirk to seep through the cracks of his scowl. Well, if he wasn't here by invitation, he'd just have to make Snape un-invite him. He wouldn't be a polite guest if he didn't after all.

With an almost gleeful gleam in his eye, he turned to the house-elf hobbling out of his room with haste. "Stout?" He called, fishing out the cube that was his shrunken belongings. The house-elf had to have heard him, given how fast he was waddling toward the stairway. "Stout."

Almost as if disappointed, the chubby house-elf turned slowly around, porky fists clenched in his pillowcase. His gnarled face folded in on itself with a frown, and he was silent. Kaltag hissed through his teeth, annoyed.

_**Insubordinate beast.**_

Hand clenched around his wand Kaltagonus removed it from his waistband, blue eyes narrowed crossly at the disobedient house-elf. Stout's defiant brown eyes shifted from his face to his wand warily, and if possible, he glowered harder. A cautionary prickle from his silver wristband drove the dark whispers to the outskirts of his mind and out of range. He needed to spell himself soon, hopefully before Snape could start in on him for murdering his house-elf.

Through pursed lips and narrowed eyes he held out his other hand with his minimized trunk and pleasantly requested, "Enlarge my things, will you…" he swallowed hard, trying to keep the aggravated look off his face as he added, "…please?" He envisioned he would need the house-elf's assistance some time in the near future—especially if he was going to need coffee at nights, and lots of it—so there was no reason to get off on the wrong foot already.

Stout's gaze shifted from his lowered wand to his face again, a flicker of confusion dashing across his eyes before he proceeded to enlarge Kaltag's trunk with a snap of his fingers. Of course, he hadn't told him that his trunk should have been on the ground when he did that, and Kaltag let it drop, wincing as with an incredibly loud '_thud'_ it hit the floor, making the nearly bare bookshelf hop. It was official: the stupid elf hated him just as much as Snape did. Surprise, surprise.

But he wasn't bothered by that thought for long. As he turned his wand on himself, whispering magical relief to flood his senses and alleviate his control, Kaltagonus went about preparing himself for dinner. He wasn't wanted here? Fine. It seemed like he had no choice but to live up to that expectation.

ooooo

At exactly 6:58 PM, Kaltagonus sauntered into the dining room, taking a seat in the only other chair with a plate before it, ignoring the irate expression on the surly Potions Master's candlelit face. He had only assumed Snape was furious; he hadn't bothered to acknowledge him in any way, just sitting down rather noisily and plunking his elbows on either side of his empty plate. He studied the heraldic crest set in the center of the china—_boy, were Snape's familiars ugly_—before he had decided he'd ignored Snape long enough and peered at him.

Naturally, Snape was seething, hand raised, fingers tightening around his fork speared with several leaves of lettuce. The one on the end slid off, landing with a hollow '_clunk'_ in the bowl before him.

Lacing his fingers together under his chin, Kaltagonus offered the livid professor a blank look and an arched eyebrow. When Snape's own furrowed, he replied in kind with a shrug. The wizard's hand dropped then, the fork clinking on the bowl icily.

"Smythe, you're late. That is unacceptable." There was a definite tone of warning in his voice, backed by the threatening glimmer in his eyes.

Kaltagonus regarded him coolly, eyes flitting to the spot where Stout had just Apparated beside him, shoving something under his nose with a grunt. The Being shied away, pulling a face, and watched as several more foodstuffs appeared on the table. He noticed Snape's bowl had disappeared, now replaced with one of the ugly monogrammed dishes.

But the dreadful sack of gray wrinkles was rumbling on in Italian, large eyes piercing him, forehead crinkled, and was stretching on his brittle tiptoes poking him in the chin with tinkling glass phials. _"Prende,"_ he insisted. _"Prende."_

Annoyed, Kaltagonus kept batting him away, dodging his attempts to shove the phials up his nose. "Um … no. _No."_

"Take it." Snape said jadedly.

_"Prende, prende…"_

He blocked the crystals from stabbing him in the eye as he looked up at Snape, who was spearing some meat on his plate. "What? _Ahh!"_ the redhead hissed, rubbing at his thigh where Stout was now viciously prodding him.

_"Prende! Prende! Prende!"_

"Take them," the black-haired man insisted again, glaring at him over a heap of steaming fusilli.

"Well—" Kaltag began, pausing to scoot his chair away from the persistent fiend.

_"Prende! Prende!"_

Stout was rather strong for someone looking as old and portly as him, he vaguely noted, with one gnarled hand pulling himself and his paunch up and over the wooden armrest to jab the phials at his neck. "What—stop that—is—_stop_, er, _smette di!_—it?"

Snape sighed edgily and scowled at him. "What does it _look_ like?"

_"PRENDE! PRENDE! PRENDE!"_

"It looks like an infuriating house-elf who eats more than he serves is climbing up my chair and attempting my death by blunt glass," he retorted, matching Snape's glare.

"_Take … it_," Snape demanded through clenched teeth, hand squeezing around his fork so tight the pasta was rolling off wetly.

_"Why?"_

_"PRENDE! PRENDE! PREN—"_

_"Mr. Smythe."_

"Fine!" He growled, yanking the phials from the hand now nudging sharply into his ribs. Stout immediately clambered off of the arm of the chair with a grumble, rubbed at his belly, and disappeared from sight.

Thoroughly annoyed, Kaltagonus slammed the glass containers on the table and threw a dirty look at Snape, who had resumed eating. "What was all that for?"

Snape calmly stabbed a forkful of the spiral pasta before answering, "It would have done with less commotion if you had only taken what was given to you."

"You expect me to just take something from a strange house-elf without questioning it? For all I know, it could have been poison," he snapped, furious.

"I couldn't fault him for that," he returned just as evenly. Kaltagonus scowled, eyebrows lowered in annoyance. If he wanted to play that game, well then, he'd just have to oblige.

His gaze fell on the crystal phials shining in the light of the chandelier, both filled halfway with potion. Upon further inspection he noticed one was so dark red it was almost black, and it appeared to be churning on its own, swirling lazily within the glass. The other was off white, and definitely a thicker consistency, given how it was taking so long to seep down the inside of the glass.

"What are they for?" he posed, absently noticing that his plate was still empty. He grabbed the nearest thing—a roast—and added a few slices to his plate. After the trying day he'd had, any and all hunger had simply vanished when he'd realized he would have to eat with Snape. He seriously hoped the man hadn't cooked; he could fry a full flank with all that grease in his hair as it is.

He didn't miss when Snape set down his fork and glared off to the side before eyeing him exasperatedly. "Your … _disease_."

At that, Kaltag's brow rose, his hands halting from cutting up his meat. Snape knew about the Bellotaur then? And he'd made a potion for it? He was cured? "You know?"

"Of course," he snapped impatiently, crease forming in his brow. "I saw the infernal vampire bite you, or do you not recall my presence that night?"

That night. Of course he recalled several awful things from that night so many days ago, though it felt like just yesterday he was pinning his friends to trees and pondering what would be the most creative way to kill them. The silver cuff warmed on his wrist as if to convey the opposite; as if Harry was right there swearing that it hadn't been _him_. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to Snape's. The man sneered unkindly, and slid a forkful of pasta between his lips.

Kaltag looked away, down at his own meager dinner, which he hadn't touched. "What do they do?"

Snape fingered his glass of wine as he answered, visibly bored, "The pearl-colored is a salve to be used twice daily for the Mark to defuse any hidden poison in your skin. And since it would be unthinkable for the little prince to have blemished skin when he goes for his _kouros_ next week, it blends the mark into an acceptable fashion, as curse scars do not heal." His thin lips pulled back in a yellow-toothed smirk as he continued, ignoring the Celestial's annoyance. "The maroon neutralizes the toxin in your blood while entirely Cloaking you. Do not mistake this for kindness."

"Clearly, as you're incapable."

"I brewed them for my benefit," Snape drawled sharply, smirk dissolving at his comment, "with my well-being in mind: I would be enormously displeased if the sound of your carcass being dragged down the stairs in the dead of night disturbed my rest."

"Right. Wouldn't want to disturb your beauty rest," Kaltagonus easily countered, muttering under his breath, "God knows you need all the time you can get."

"Excuse me?"

Kaltagonus pursed his lips, and eyed Snape, dangerous look on his face as usual, before he replied, "Pass the salt … please."

Snape scowled, stewing in his fury before he brandished his wand and wordlessly waved it at the silver container, sliding it across the table with a push of magic. Kaltag snatched it up as it reached him and dumped it on his meat for something to do. It was bland, anyway. No doubt Stout forgot the seasoning while he was licking his fingers of pudding.

The noise of silverware clinking on china filled the tense silence between them for the next few minutes, Kaltag heatedly cutting up his meat into salty squares and the professor spilling a heavy amount of sauce on everything. Things weren't going as well as the teen had hoped; Snape didn't seem as mad as he'd expected. Their sparring wasn't causing Snape to throw him out in wrath. _Well, then,_ he mused, staring up at the sullen wizard down the long table. _Desperate times, right?_

He cleared his throat quietly—but Snape didn't move, and that was all right, because he still started, "Speaking of sleeping, I just wanted to inform you ahead of time: I'm a very light sleeper."

Snape paid him no heed, reaching for his wine glass and taking a healthy sip. Unperturbed, he continued, "I just was wondering if there were any partners, girlfriends, or ex-wives I should be concerned with? Because if you're one of those _screamers_ during sex—"

_"Smythe!"_

"—may I suggest using a Silencing Charm, or taking such carnal acts to the forest where they belong? I'm a bit young for all that." He continued calmly, pulling a cube of meat off his fork with his teeth as he sweetly smiled. Snape was fairly brimming with fury right now, he was certain, setting his glass down so hard wine was close to sloshing over the rim. The young Being hefted a shoulder and lightly finished, "Fair warning."

"You insolent little—"

"It's nothing to be ashamed about, sir," he brightly replied, beaming so forcefully, his jaw hurt. "It's perfectly natural."

"If you say one more—"

"And I'm willing to bet you amassed quite the collection of knickers in your day." Kaltagonus resumed his lively tone, waggling his eyebrows. The Potions Master visibly seethed, dark eyes glistening with promises of painful things to come.

Lips pulled back in a snarl, Snape stood from his chair and tried to scold, "If your father heard you now—"

"Bet the Hufflepuffs didn't stand a chance, since you so ooze of…" he smacked his lips, tasting bitterness on his tongue as he replied, "…charm."

"You are treading a _very_ thin line, boy." Snape advised with deadly calm, his face so white with anger that his eyes were angry black coals burning with silent fury. "You had better choose your next words carefully, or else—"

"What? You'll kick me out?" He replied with entirely too much passion that he leaned forward in his seat.

"I'll—"

Snape's mouth was open, poised to deliver what Kaltag hoped were those enraged words that freed him, when the Being realized his mistake much too late.

Apparently, so did Snape.

The professor stood frozen, mouth open but no more words forthcoming, his dark eyes glinting in the candlelight, very aware. Kaltagonus went still himself, joyful expression fading into astonishment.

The professor closed his mouth and lowered himself back into his seat, primly settling his dinner cloth back on his lap and taking up his fork again in silence. Kaltag swallowed, sitting back slowly in his chair, watching. Perhaps Snape had given up, he had told himself, his hands nervously clenching around his knife and fork. Maybe he didn't know, yet. Maybe he—

Snape looked up then, staring at him through the flames on the candlesticks, and smirked.

Kaltag felt what little hope he'd mustered in the last few seconds squash under Snape's look. He knew. He wasn't fooled. And he'd probably not rise to his baiting the next time. He should've been more careful. Extremely displeased, Kaltagonus averted his eyes from Snape, whose smirk was so bright the boy had thought Christmas had come early, and furiously scraped at the food on his plate.

For good measure—and maybe because he wanted to rile Snape as much as he was—he frankly broached, "What can you tell me about sex?"

There was a loud _clang_ which was the sound of Snape's knife falling to the floor. The redhead held back a snicker of triumph as he observed Snape, mouth slackened almost to the point of dropping, but not gaping, rigid, fork in hand and a slice of meat sliding off to land with a thick _plop_ in the vat of gravy on his plate. The wizard bestowed him with a glare so intense as to warn him that he was reaching the limit. Kaltag couldn't suppress the flutter of joy he felt stirring in him at the thought of riling Snape so much. He was sure he could get used to this. Hope was not all lost.

He arched an eyebrow and unfolded his serviette, dabbing the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "My apologies." Though he was completely unapologetic, and Snape could surely tell. "That was uncalled for."

Through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes, Snape acknowledged, "Indeed."

"Any sentence with the words 'Snape' and 'sex' in it is disturbing enough as it is."

"What was that?" Snape sharply at him, forehead lined with angry folds.

"Nothing," the young Celestial lied in a louder voice, moving the food around his plate uninterestedly. "I didn't say a thing."

"Don't test me, boy," threatened Snape, a permanent glare now fixed to his face.

Rolling his eyes, Kaltag propped his head on his free palm and muttered, "He's got brains after all … took you long enough."

"What?"

"Pass the pepper." The redhead crossly growled, dumping that on his uneaten food as well when Snape magicked it over again. "Git."

His eyes suddenly widened when he thought he'd heard the Potions Master murmur something in kind. Tables turned, the angry student dropped his fork and snapped, "What was that, _sir_?"

_"I said—" _Snape raised his voice, but stopped, pressing his lips together so tightly Kaltagonus thought he could bind books with them. Hand crushing the silverware in his hand and left eye twitching barely perceptibly, Snape responded in a strained voice through gritted teeth, "Pass … the salt."

Kaltag didn't know what possessed him to rationally pick up the salt shaker, and hurl it at Snape's head, thoughtlessly summoning a burst of wind that made the flames falter to push it forward.

He took a brief moment to admire the shock that flickered across Snape's face before his wand was up, hastily transfiguring the projectile midair into a handkerchief. It was a rather quick transformation, though; the kerchief slapped him square in the nose before Snape grabbed it in his fist, shaking particles of salt all over himself and his ruined meal.

It took no time for his expression to go from fuming to past the point of conniption. Kaltag swallowed, either from keeping in his laughter or fear of being disemboweled, he wasn't quite sure. His eyes were fixed on Snape, watching as the Potions Master rose to his full height, teeth bared, his grip white around his wand, nostrils flaring, and eyes ablaze with savageness as he puffed up his chest and roared, _"SMYTHE!"_

He immediately jumped up and slapped his napkin on the remains of his supper, coolly cutting in, "May I be excused? Thank you."

Without waiting for an answer he left the room, taking the steps two at a time to his designated space. It wasn't his room … oh, no, no, no. There was no _'his'_ room, not in this mental hospital. Giving it a personal touch would have made it real, made the last few weeks real, and no way in hell was he ready to do that. A bloody free hotel, that's all it was: a guest room, as he was a guest.

A much hated guest, but a guest nonetheless. Yes, that was appropriate. He would go to the _guest room_, where none of his things were unpacked, and where he could brood in darkness on a bed that would never be comfortable, and in a house that wasn't home … wherever that may be. He was content for things to stay that way until he was emancipated.

So absorbed in his resentment he was, that he never heard Snape stalk after him until his wrist was in the wizard's steely grip. Kaltag whirled around, teeth clenched in anger as he yanked his arm free from Snape's grasp.

"Get off!" He fumed, backhanding Snape's hands from his arm, the cuff on his wrist buzzing with caution as he felt a surge of anger not his own sparking in him, from his back, the first he'd felt it since arriving in Italy. "Let me _go!_ Asshole!"

"Insolent little shit!"

Kaltag succeeded in pushing Snape away, nearly knocking him into the oil lamp on the small table. Glaring, he huffed lowly at the incensed professor, "No one calls me that to my face." He eyed Snape up and down one last time before he turned toward the bedroom door, intent on locking himself in for the rest of the summer.

Snape, however, had no such plans. Before his hand touched the knob the redhead found himself spun around, Snape's fists balled in the front of his jumper, and sudden pain blossoming from the back of his head as Snape slammed him into the door. His vision doubled and his eyes stung for short moments before Snape's hooked nose was pressed against his, black eyes boring into his blue, into his soul. His breath, heavy with tomato sauce and wine, assaulted his nostrils as he spoke, low, menacing, and with guarantee.

"Is that so?" the words were stretched, rumbled, hissed, and Snape's eyes flashed with barely controlled rage. Kaltag gulped, fearful, but suddenly an overwhelming sense of anger swept through him and he began to fight back, seeing red, hands seizing Snape's wrists, trying to twist them off, break them, to push him away—

But Snape predicted it apparently and shook him hard enough to force him to stop. When the redhead's lips parted to lash swears, the wizard growled, "Shut up and listen. You're in my sphere of influence now, boy, and I know what you are trying to do. Now, for some incredibly foolish reason, your father thinks sending you here after your reckless stunt at Themys was a brilliant idea. For your stupidity, I am paying the consequence, and this does not amuse me. I did not sign up to take care of a seventeen-year-old baby."

"I'm not a child!"

"No: you're an unfortunate occurrence that happened to come about because your daft parents were too stupid to use contraception. Now, you have tried the last of my patience, Mr. Smythe … but due to the strength of the Blood Guardianship laws, I cannot give you back to your father until a year has passed."

His struggling ceased and he went still, blue eyes wide with disbelief. "Oh yes," Snape grimly nodded with a crooked grin, pulling his face away a little. "And even beyond then, I will be burdened by you, and do you know why?"

He knew why; he just couldn't believe it. Hearing of adoption was one thing, as he only had a year until he was legally an adult. But under Blood Guardianship laws, everything was different.

Wanly, he nodded, eyes lowering to the flickering oil lamp on the table. "Because … I'm Celestial."

"And?"

He mustered a glare at Snape before answering, "Guardianship started last week."

Snape bitterly smiled. "Precisely, and for the majority of it, you will be an adult in human and wizard years, but not in Celestial age. Thus, until you reach that age, _I_ am your guardian."

Those words made him throw up a little in his mouth. He belonged to Snape, now, and the next decade or so. The mere thought caused the wrist cuff to tighten and trigger a warning zap as the mark on his back began to heat up.

"Your father did not wish me to tell you this," Snape went on, "but you have left me no choice. So let us get things straight right now: you don't want to be here, and neither do I, but that does not give you the right to make my life more miserable than even your peers do. Believe me: you _do not_ want me to kindly return that favor.

"For the duration of your stay, you will obey my rules with a minimum of fuss. I will do everything this side of legal to ignore you, and I would appreciate it, Mr. Smythe, if you did the same for me. Do that, and this digression will soon be over and we can part ways, never having to be around one another ever again, even if we are regrettably linked for the next twenty years. Do it, Mr. Smythe, and save yourself the trouble of inciting my wrath against you. Understood?"

He was released from Snape's clutch without answering, slumping against the door, grabbing hold of the knob and breathing hard through his nose. His eyebrows sunk over his eyes, glaring at the hard-faced Potions Master who stared at him piercingly before turning toward the stairwell.

"I don't like you." He frostily seethed, glaring daggers at Snape's retreating back.

"And I don't like you," the wizard composedly drawled, face turned toward his shoulder, but not looking back at him. "But it is one thing to be liked, Mr. Smythe; it is quite another to show respect." (2)

It was some time after Snape had left that Kaltagonus drew his eyes away from the empty landing and he entered the room, at once finding two half-filled glass phials on his nightstand. He suddenly felt drowsy, exhaustion finally catching up to him after all of today's excitement, and decided, as early as it was, that he'd go to bed. _Well_, he sourly thought, _at least I'm following Snape's rules so far._

He set his wand on the newly-made bed and began shrugging off his clothes, letting them fall to the floor. He found he was far too tired to tidy up or even wash up, resolving to do that in the morning. When he was down to his pants, Kaltagonus grabbed up his wand and pointed it between his eyes, whispering, "_Evincio,"_ feeling a great relief as the sensation of cool vacancy and a world made of plush enveloped him, a world where he didn't need to think.

Swaying a little, he sat on the bed—not his bed, of course, but the _guest_ bed—and picked up the first crystal. It was the dark one, the bloody one that moved of its own accord, and he unstopped it, senses suddenly assaulted with the scent of sunflower and an abundance of some creature blood he couldn't identify.

It smelled of power, if that were even a scent, and he tipped the phial to his lips and drank, the bitter potion tasting like copper and garlic on his tongue. He thought he felt it sloshing down his throat, moving lower and lower, sliding through him like an oily slug and leaving a slight prickle in its wake. Making a face, the Being set down the empty phial and picked up the other, the one with the salve, and went about peeling the gauze from his neck.

He had only seen the wound once, one of the days when he still had a mirror and wasn't as fearful of the reflection, but he remembered it well. One couldn't forget such a sight so soon: the two punctures still open, still quite sore, and surrounded by a livid purple stain. It seemed to have spread as the days went by, and he had noticed as he'd briefly glanced in the mirror this morning that some purple was peeking out around the edges of the pad.

This potion smelled of fresh hawthorn and mountain ash, and he rubbed a big dollop on one side of his neck, flinching as his fingers brushed over the sensitive holes. By the time he'd finished, he could barely keep his eyes open. Closing the phial and setting it aside, he had the sense of mind to turn off the lamp before lying down and pulling a blanket over his legs. He was lulled to sleep in minutes from the sound of waves crashing below him and the glassy sky above, the darkness blanketed by stars.

He sleepily opened an eye when he thought he heard a noise sound near the closet, but decided not to investigate. Tomorrow, maybe.

oooooooooo

* * *

_Prende_—in my rough cut Italian—means 'take, or take it'. If it's wrong, feel free to correct me. 

_Smette di_—again, in my rough Italian-command creation—apparently means 'stop it'. Again, see the aforesaid.

* * *

**A/N**: Sorry for the long wait...took me a while to get motivated. Thank **HarryPotter21** for finally giving me a deadline (this chapter probably would've been out in 2008 instead. _(gasp!)_). Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays.! 

**A/N 2**: The website's been updated with a few hidden links pertaining to TBI, so check it out when you get a chance.

**(1)**: Stout/stuck-out came from the HBO Comedy Half-Hour with George Wallace. I figured people come from all walks of life: why can't house-elves?

**(2)**: Quote was a variation from the film _Troy:_ my original words were 'quite another to be respected', but they just didn't fit.


	5. 5: Hubris, Pt I

**The Best Intentions**

**Disclaimer:** I do not make any money off of the _Harry Potter _fandom. Damn.

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_Am I? – Inward thoughts._

_**Kill it.**_ – _Golradir thought-speech._

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_**Warning:**_ _This chapter contains mild elements of __**pre-slash**__, meaning early instances of __**male/male**__ situations. If you need a clearer definition than that, we need to talk. You've been warned._

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**Five****:** Hubris, Part I

ooooo

The cutting burn in his left forearm reduced to a niggling ache the moment he landed at the forest's edge. He sighed, a paltry eighth of his apprehension abated. Whether the other seven parts would follow depended on the nature of tonight's gathering.

That was, _if_ he made it out _alive._ Judging by the whisper of footfalls and the shadows sweeping between the trees, he was somewhat pleased to note he wasn't alone. At least, if he _was_ late, he would have someone to share the wrath of the Dark Lord with. Any insignificant detail worked in his favor, as it was the difference between leaving mildly intact, or not leaving at all. Throwing another look around the misty darkness, Severus pulled his hood lower over his head and crossed the tree line into the wood.

He further confirmed his punctuality as he counted more than six different shapes weaving between the wide tree trunks, all converging on the invisible beacon drawing them deeper into the forest. There was very little possibility that there would be more than seven members late to a meeting. It had taken him twelve minutes of city-to-city Apparition to get from the isle to the source of the call, a stately estate huddled in a deep pocket of the Albanian wood.

Upon first sight, he fell into his well-practiced routine: first, his stomach wound itself into knots. Then he pursed his lips and drew the doors of his mind closed, locked, warded, and barricaded by reinforced brick and stone. Every time, without fail. He had been in this service over sixteen years and even still, the unease roiled like new.

He did not think he would ever stop chiding his stupid, foolish youthful naïveté on making such an impetuous and immature decision all those years ago. For as long as he suffered the consequences of his choices, he would not stop punishing himself. The turn of events haunted him anew every day: racing from Dumbledore's office, vibrating with rage that Potter and his little band of miscreants got off for the hundredth time; the elder Potter frowning at Black, who had a smirk behind his facade of contrition during Dumbledore's reproving lecture. He breathed sharply through his nose, ignoring the number of darkened hoods that perked toward him. He hoped Black was rotting in a gutter somewhere as dead as the Order anticipated he was.

All those years ago, he'd angrily stormed past the stone gargoyle and swore he would never again turn to the aged headmaster for assistance again. And then he'd arrived home for Easter holiday only to find his father having tea with the topmost pure-blood patriarchs of the time: Malfoy, with his long-faced son Lucius; the Goyles, Crabbes, Avery men, and a fidgety Orion Black with his sharp-eyed second-born, Regulus. He could remember the events that followed after they had gone as clearly as he could recall his birth date.

Persuasion; promises aplenty that kindled his desire for revenge against those that wronged him too many times. They had promised distinction, unrivaled glory, and, he was still shamed to admit it, the word that brought him to his knees: _power_. But he hadn't agreed then; it was all still a tenuous affair to him, a cause that might or might not work. Their promises alone were not what drew him to this Dark life that wretched night. In fact, he hadn't been drawn in by words at all, but by a sight.

A sight that he had never witnessed crossing his father's face: acceptance. Pride. That was all the persuasion he'd needed.

Stupid, silly, incredibly foolish boy.

And on the subject of incredibly foolish boys, he had forgotten to make sure the boy was still asleep. He'd left so hastily when his Mark seared, stopping in on the menace had escaped him. Not that he worried about him sneaking out, of course. Whether he cleared the craggy hundred-meter drop below his terrace was another matter entirely. As resilient as the mouthy little prat was, he really wouldn't put it past him to engineer a breakout.

Then again, the last forty-eight hours had seen the boy holed up in his room, likely planning his getaway. He had made it a point to go to each meal to make sure the boy knew he meant business but it seemed the bloody whelp was either testing his limits or worse: he was as stubborn as Potter. Severus snorted contemptibly; no wonder the two got along so famously. But he wasn't about to let the child protest their circumstances in such an unhealthy way. He'd have a word with him when he got back, if only to keep Spiridon from having a conniption.

The loud crunch of dry leaves right beside him drew Severus back to the present, and he locked his unbidden thoughts back behind the Occluded fortress of his mind. This was not the time or place to let his mind wander. Especially when it could get him killed.

"Severus," whispered a gravelly voice in the dark, "even with your head so deep in your cloak, I can tell your gait anywhere. You move with purpose, with deliberation and no grand gesture: like you have business tonight. Like your father."

He scowled at the last barb, but did not seize the bait. "Avery. You ought to start paying less attention to my arse and mind your own."

Avery's wheezy chuckle was stifled by their scrunching footfalls. "You missed the gathering two weeks ago."

"And you missed most of the others before that."

"Touché. Where have you been all this time? I checked Spinner's End, but it looks as if you have not yet been there," he pointed out.

"That's because I've not."

"Oh?"

"Not that it is any business of yours," he hissed as they rounded a wispy tree, "but I am where I should be."

"Well, wherever you are, you ought to know your father is looking for you."

"Hmm."

"I told him I'd send you round when I saw you."

Fresh bitterness roiled in him and he struggled to keep his mind fully Occluded. "How ... thoughtful of you."

Avery scoffed, amused. "Come now, Severus; he _is_ your father."

"And why, exactly, would you be found in the company of _my_ father?"

"He's been visiting the apothecary regularly, talking with my father," he confessed. "Reminiscing about the old ways, on life before the bloodlines dirtied."

Severus snorted in derision, shaking his head. "The old ways are dead."

Before he could take another step forward a thick hand landed heavily on his shoulder, spinning him round. His wand was already in hand, stiff and ready, but Avery's hand remained where it was, weighty and menacing.

Though the pitch darkness and their hoods hid their faces, Severus could feel the admonition radiating from the older wizard in thick waves. "Careful, my old friend," he sharply cautioned. Severus resisted the urge to huff in irony; there were no friends in this business. "You know better. Had you said those words in the wrong company, we'd be Spelling what's left of you off the trees right now."

Snape's brow furrowed suspiciously. What was Avery playing at? He didn't actually believe that tripe about being friends? He inwardly scoffed at the idea. Every Death Eater's most trusted friends could be counted on two fingers: their wand, and sheer dumb luck.

Avery didn't release his hold until his wand was safely tucked away, out of sight and no longer a threat. Slowly, Snape turned away from him and began walking again, keeping a sharp ear out for any shift in Avery's tone or bearing. After a moment, Avery fell in step beside him again. "I thought the only reason my father would have an interest in you would be to pester you for Paternity Potions."

His companion snorted. "That, too." Avery was silent for a span of time during which Severus caught a few stray thoughts he'd not Occluded. Avery was a shoddy Occlumens at best, but did know enough to hold the more private, damaging thoughts behind closed doors, so to speak. "Any news you can share?"

Snape frowned. Avery was being quite the busybody of late. Poking around his flat, prying where he ought not to pry, professing their friendship; perhaps he'd missed something important at that meeting two weeks ago. Or worse yet: perhaps he'd been found out.

It was very unlikely, but he decided to partake of Avery's little game if only to find out exactly how much (or how little) he knew. "Black's missing."

"Dead?"

He made a vague noise of disinterest as he noticed the imposing dark shape up ahead. Almost there, then.

"If he is, I've heard no news of our side being involved," mused Avery. "Nor have I heard of the Dark Lord authorizing the attack on the Express?"

Severus chuckled darkly. "Perhaps you are a spy, then."

Avery's answering snort was scornful. "Perhaps."

He decided the risk was minimal enough to take a chance and voiced his opinion. "I do not think it was a planned strike; the boy probably took matters into his own hands."

"If that's true, then the Dark Lord might have him disposed of for disobedience," said Avery. "Two pure-bloods died that day."

"Could it have been a test for him?"

When Avery said nothing, he tipped his hooded head towards him. "You _didn't_ know?" the man's voice peaked with curiosity. "Perhaps _you_ are the spy, Severus."

He pursed his lips, inwardly cursing his overreaching. The last thing he wanted was another set of eyes trained in his direction. "Touché."

The strain abated with Avery's quiet mirth. "You are a most crucial ally, Snape. I would hate to have to kill you."

As they crossed the iron gates' path leading into the belly of the beast, Severus shrewdly returned, "And I, you, Avery."

He followed the persistent tug of his Dark Mark through a darkened doorway and into a tepid foyer. The house had recently been occupied; it couldn't have escaped anyone's notice that the coat rack held three stiff cloaks, one in a child's size. None of his fellows lingered at the entrance, but made their way through to the substantial dining room, easily a quarter of the Great Hall's size.

A large, polished table made of the darkest cherry dominated the space, quite handsome if not for the dark smears running across it end to end, tinged with gleaming scarlet. Snape looked away, pursed his lips, and tested his mental barrier. There was no time for regret or pity or sorrow; those demons were deferred until after the war—_if_ he survived.

He sat nearer to the head of the table, following the others' examples and pulling back his hood. Annoyingly enough, Avery took the seat right beside him and lowered his hood as well. He'd gained weight since they'd last met, more than a year ago, but Avery was still as disheveled as he'd remembered him: thick, clumped beard streaked with grey and dark head of hair white at the temples. His nose was at an odd angle, as if it had been recently broken, and there were freshly-healed burns and discolored patches on his olive skin, a testament to his sloppy brewing talents.

Each long side of the table was filled by the end of ten minutes; seemed this meeting was for everyone tonight. While some held quiet conversations where they were seated, others like Antonin Dolohov and Lucius Malfoy were peering around the table with searching eyes and inexpressive faces. Bellatrix Lestrange was the last of them to take her seat, closest to the ornate chair sitting at the head of the table. When she sat, all conversation instantly died off.

Several seconds of fearful reverence passed before a handful of new recruits closer to the exit exploded with startled yelps, leaping up from their chairs. Severus narrowed his eyes and had his wand out in under a second before he heard it: the low squeak of wet scales sliding across leather boots and the admonitory hissing from beneath the table. Ah, so: the pet snake had arrived before its master, bent on terrorizing them before his grand entrance. He stemmed the urge to pull his feet away as her heavy body glided over them, weighing his boot tips down, but he stopped himself. Voldemort would not forgive those who harmed his precious serpent, accident or not.

When the door to a side room fell open, Severus immediately bowed his head in tandem with everyone else. The Dark Lord's footfalls were measured, deliberate, a clever ruse used to build on the fear that already gripped them. But the breathing ... Snape's brow creased in bewilderment. The sorcerer's respiration was labored: guttural, savage breaths sharp as razors cut through the anxious silence. Even as Voldemort sat with assertive grace and growled for them to lift their heads in a voice most ungainly of the charismatic wizard he had pledged allegiance to, nothing prepared him for the staggering sight awaiting his attention. On his left, Avery drew in a sharp gasp.

It was as if he were staring into the deepest, darkest, _foulest_ corners of his nightmares. Like a beast, wrought from sheer horror and fear was incarnated before them. Dumbledore's warnings of Voldemort changing himself had been exceptionally mild compared to this sight. A hot, fetid stench stung his nose and the air around him, and he realized just how pungent the Dark Lord's breath was, reaching him even five chairs away. Snape swallowed, toiling to keep his face inscrutable.

Eyes as red and keen as rubies roamed over each of them in turn, feeling minds in and out. Like a wandmaker inspecting a wand, Severus mused: the Dark Lord's practiced hand poked and prodded, caressed and searched for that connection-spark, that one power, that single knowledge that could bring even the strongest of wizards to their knees. When those skeletal hands probed his mind, stroking stray memories planted and scraping around corners, Severus almost congratulated himself on passing this test one more time. Maybe he would survive the night after all.

Then those ever-questing hands skirted his most compelling thoughts about the headmaster and Black, and began to step over weak barriers, probing deeper still. Before his mind's eye flicked memories: useless ones of his tenure as Potions Master. Images of each year swirled by as if shown on a projector, and Voldemort moved swiftly through the recent years until he'd apparently found what he'd been looking for: the last term. The Dark Lord skimmed through the classes until he located the most recent sixth years, cataloged the faces and names of Slytherins, known pure-bloods, a number of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors and, though it went by too quick for him to get a proper look, one particular redheaded student in the end. Satisfaction glowed in crimson eyes, and seemed to flow outwardly as if through invisible fingertips. Voldemort had found what he was looking for.

Severus froze, black eyes locked on the sorcerer's gleaming ones. Never had his weedy barricades been tested so extensively before. Never had Voldemort lingered so long on any follower, ever. Only when he knew something, or wanted something secret and something dangerous: something deadly that was being kept from him. And there was only one reason why he had been singled out. Sweet God.... He'd been compromised. It was the only explanation that made sense. No wonder Avery was acting so ridiculously strange earlier.

As his barriers continued to endure more tests, Severus kept a straight face, his only outward reaction being the hard grip he had on the arms of his chair. He always anticipated he'd die by Voldemort's hand, just not in this way, and this soon. And, God, he hadn't even told the boy where he'd gone to warn him!

Yet quite surprisingly, he felt the prying hands withdraw from him and move on, leaving Snape to estimate just how much time he had left until he was disposed of. But the Dark Lord seemed to want to draw out the inevitable, and instead addressed the assembly at large.

"My friends, I know some of you do not understand my ... rapid and repellent transformation, or find my Hybrid regimen most unusual," said Voldemort, his voice sounding like a newly sharpened knife scraping a brick wall, "but for victory, it is a necessary magic."

From the way she was fawning at his right elbow like a steadfast lover, Severus never would have believed Bellatrix had become a widow mere weeks ago. "It is a most unappetizing manifestation, of this I am deeply aware," he gratingly resumed, "but it strikes our enemies with a deeper fright to see a manifestation of their worst fears.

"I have always fancied myself a great deal more than a sorcerer or Master Dueler," divulged Voldemort, pausing to mop up the black spit drizzling from the corners of his fanged mouth. "So you can still regard me with horror, Rookwood. And you, Antonin, can flounder in your disgust of me, but I am still more than human. I am more than wizard and more than magic itself. Despair and revere me, for I ... am a _god_."

Severus didn't join in the roar of approval by his fellows. There really was nothing for him to celebrate, what with the possibility of his death looming over the horizon....

Voldemort quieted the cheers and briskly called on individuals for progress reports, pensively stroking the head of his familiar in wordless deliberation. Snape himself took mental notes: infiltrations at the Ministry, the plans to break vampire and giant neutrality, the army of werewolves Fenrir Greyback was rallying. Despite major progress, Voldemort praised no one, rewarded not a single effort and kept mum on his involvement with the Dark Celestials. Only once did he publicly state the need to hear more on the opinion of his associate on the idea of merging Hybrid blood with the lycanthropes'. The very thought of what those results would produce made Severus' stomach twist in knots.

It was nearing dawn when after the Carrows' statements, the Dark Lord called, "Severus?"

He took a steeling breath, making sure his mind was well Occluded and the thoughts he'd arranged were at the forefront of his mind. He was ready to announce the Order's news of Black's mysterious disappearance when Voldemort said, "Tell me about your godson."

An unbidden chill ran down his spine. Severus swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat, only to be replaced by another. "My lord?"

"Your godson," the Dark Lord said evenly. His glittering eyes narrowed. "The Celestial. Do you not recall being named the boy's godfather nigh eighteen years ago?"

All eyes came to rest uncomfortably on him. Some, like Avery's, were accusing, and others, like Lucius', were mildly intrigued. Voldemort pet the head of his large serpent with long, calculated strokes. "Surely you remember, Severus. It was Wormtail who brought it to my attention and who I sent to fetch you the night after the presentation to the court. Or am I to be made a liar in front of our friends tonight?"

Of course he remembered. Cursed rat. "No, of course not, my lord," he said, bowing his head respectfully. He swallowed again, but the lump remained. "You simply caught me off guard. I have had private contact with neither the boy nor his father since last Christmas." His blood raced from the heat of his lie. What in the blazes was he doing, lying to the Dark Lord this close to death?

Voldemort's eyes glimmered with displeasure. Severus braced himself. "Is that so?"

"Many apologies, my lord."

"Can this ... _complication_ be amended?"

"I suppose."

"Yes or no, Snape?" Nagini gave a warning hiss, her gleaming yellow eyes fixed on his every movement.

He tightened his hold on the arms of his chair. "Yes."

The grin the Dark wizard gave in response was one he would not easily forget. "How soon?" he eagerly pressed, oblivious to the black, viscous spittle sliding down his chin.

"The boy's father has been pestering me increasingly of late."

"For?"

"I cannot be sure," said Snape. "Perhaps now that both worlds can acknowledge each other once again, he may want the child to strengthen his ties through me?"

The Dark Lord's probing eyes mirrored his snake's, never blinking as they gauged his expression. Snape remained stoic; he knew if he so much as averted his gaze or blinked, Voldemort would make things a lot more difficult than they were now. Finally, in a clipped, gruff tone the Dark Lord asked, "Can he be turned?"

The knob in his throat, which he now identified as dread, rolled right through him and landed heavily in his stomach. Besides the child's power, what more could the Dark Lord want? More clout and a constant headache, to boot?

Severus considered his next words very carefully. "If I can get to him with a valid excuse, perhaps—"

"Then you get to him, the sooner the better. I do not care for the method you use, only that you are discreet. I have a need, and unfinished business to settle with him."

The ball of dread seemed to expand, weighing him down in his seat and filling his stomach to bursting capacity. "Would my lord permit me to inquire as to why?"

It was a bold thing of anyone to ask Voldemort for a rationalization behind his reasoning. It was an increasingly dangerous game he was playing, prodding at the Dark Lord as if he himself were the giant snake waiting to strike true. So thick was the tension in the air it was almost tangible.

With bated breath, Severus waited, as did his fellows, holding their breaths for the Dark Lord to reply. Running his clawed fingers down the diamond head of his familiar, Voldemort was silent for several unbearable moments. Snape was quite sure the next words he spoke were those of the Killing Curse, but did not move for his wand. Not if he still had a slim (and very unlikely) chance to turn things around.

"How much do you know about him, Severus?"

Lingering shock gave him pause, but the lack of a proper answer held his tongue. Voldemort seemed to take notice of this and smirked. A deadly smirk, brimming with blackened fangs and the promise of a future bursting with chaos.

"Perhaps, then," he continued without an answer, "it is high time you get to know the boy, and judge my want of him for yourself."

Snape would never admit it aloud, but the words struck him harsher than any Unforgivable ever could.

Shortly thereafter, Voldemort dismissed them all except for Lucius, with whom he wanted a word. Though shaken by the night's events, Severus abandoned his seat with impressive poise and glided swiftly toward the exit. He heard Avery call him numerous times, his voice edged with the curiosity he could see in many a fellow's eyes, but ignored him. He needed to get home. Now.

ooooo

It was an altogether beautiful and stunning sight. A field of gold, unfurled as far as the eye could see. Every where he turned, long stalks of wheat were stretched across the land and up toward the radiant sun browning his face. Beautiful. _Stunning_. God, he never wanted to leave.

_**Isn't it wonderful?**_

_Immensely!_

He was enjoying the teasing tickles of the wheat grazing his face when from the corner of his eye something jarred the stalks in the distance. Something swift and unseen. Instinctively, he grasped something heavy in his left hand, but he didn't want to look away, couldn't, in case the beautiful golden countryside slipped away into nothingness. It was far too beautiful for anything else to hold his attention.

Except now the shudder from across the endless field had moved closer, and on his other side. Odd. Exactly how fast was this hidden creature?

_**Don't mind that. Feel the wheat.**_

With blissful ignorance he did as told, touching the lumpy grain beneath his free hand. Wonderful. Beautiful. _Stunning._

He shrugged off the disturbance and basked in the handsome pasture and eternal rays of sunlight, laughing elatedly to himself as he took off running, wheat and air whipping across his sun-kissed cheeks. A mixed scent of woody, baked wheat assailed his nostrils, of distant horses and life, so much vibrant life he could feel a pulse beating in time with his own, though he saw nothing of the sort. As far as he could tell, he was alone in this grainy paradise, neither a care in the world, nor a—

He froze, grinding to a halt almost immediately. This time, he could not ignore the jolt in the wheat stalks, for it happened a mere ten feet away from him. And what was more, he could definitely see he was not alone.

A small figure was there, in the fields, virtually unnoticed in the concealing wheat. He would not have seen it, short as it was, if not for its dark head of hair. He called out. No response of any kind was returned: no movement, no verbal affirmation, nothing. It was as if he hadn't been heard. Or worse: he was being ignored.

Frowning deeply, he decided to investigate, sweeping the stalks aside and taking long, purposeful strides toward the mysterious character. The nearer he drew it became evident the small mischievous creature was, in fact, a small boy with hair as black as midnight. He was turned away from him, facing the meadow, and surprisingly enough for one his age—four, maybe five?—he stood motionless.

Five feet away, he stopped and called again. Nothing. Annoyance reared in his chest; how dare he be ignored! And in this stunningly beautiful pasture! With anger tainting his tone, he shouted at him, and when that didn't work, he plodded forward, intent to grab the child by the shoulder and viciously spin him around with a stern lecture on his lips when he smelled it.

Sharp. Piquant and metallic. His heart raced in his chest. He was all too familiar with that scent. And that sound ... eighty-six—no, ninety beats per minute.

Blood. The boy was covered in it. Arms and legs and ratty chiton, all swathed in red. He was horrified, revolted, and ... and....

Sated. Calm. _Happy_. He was undeniably, quite maniacally _happy_. Throwing his head back he inhaled so intensely he felt as if his lungs were on the verge of exploding. But the blood_,_ glorious blood that painted the child coated the inside of his nose, burned his throat and filled him with excitement. In his delighted stupor he tossed aside the weighty tool in his hand and let out a shout so feral, so joyful, the stalks of wheat trembled around him.

_**Isn't this wonderful?**_

_Wonderful!_

_**Spectacular?**_

_Amazing!_

It was all of these things and so much more! It was magnificent, astounding! Incredibly marvelous! Terribly brilliant, terrifically super—

He froze, good spirits draining from him in record time. The boy, who had been turned away from him all this time, the bloodied boy, the source of his bliss, whirled around. He stared, gaping; there was no cheer left in him at this sight.

Not only was the child blood-spattered, but he was ... wrong. Talon-claws in place of fingers. A mouth full of sharpened teeth. Black bags surrounding his golden eyes. So terribly wrong.

_**Isn't he wonderful?**_

Stunned, he shook his head, inwardly screaming at his legs to move, to run, to get as far away from this monster as possible, but he was stuck.

_What's wrong with him?_

_**Why would you think there's something wrong with him?**_

_Why would—? LOOK at him! He's … he's—_

_**Perfect.**_

He exhaled in disbelief. _What?_

_**Like us.**_

Kaltag shook his head again, but was held in place by those haunting eyes. The child's mouth dripped at the corners, hungry. He knew it was not for flesh, but death, and glory of slaughter.

_**Look at those eyes: Our eyes.**_

_No._

_**You cannot deny what we created.**_

_I didn't create _that_._

_**You **_**did**_**. You just don't remember.**_

_I would never—I couldn't do such a thing._

_**Not you,**_ the tone patronized sharply. _**We.**_

_No!_

_**We've got to destroy it.**_ Horror twisted his stomach in a knot. He couldn't kill a child; not even if it were a shell of its former self. _**It's terribly beautiful, but we must.**_

_No._

_**Yes!**_

His flinch garnered a snarl from the monster-child's throat, as guttural and deadly as any predator. Kaltag stilled, flitting his gaze from the sword he'd thrown away to those lethal hands. One wrong move and his last sight in this perfect field would be the final beats of his heart crushed in those claws.

_**Grab the sword.**_

He shook his head roughly. He _was_ _not_ thinking about killing a child. No way.

_**We have done far worse.**_

You _have: _Murder_._

_**Survival.**_

_It's still murder._

_**Don't be so noble. We have no ethics.**_

You _don't._

_**And you **_**do**_**?**_Mocked the voice. **I **_**did not look at the sword first. That was **_**you**_**.**_

_You made me._

**Will **_**made you. Now, grab it before that beast kills us both!**_

"_No!"_

_**You stupid—**_

But the voice broke off abruptly. In that moment, the boy lunged with claws and teeth and rage and Kaltag knew he would never reach the sword in time. The last thing he saw before the monster-child pounced were brilliant golden eyes—

He startled into wakefulness then, the nightmare edging slowly from his mind, leaving him in a light sheen of sweat and shakes. He would have breathed a relieved sigh were he not hindered from doing so.

Something warm was resting on his chest.

For one, he felt the slight difficultly in his breathing now that he was half awake. And two, he was sure his chest wasn't _that_ hairy. Or that he had claws, for that matter. Even as he tried hard not to panic, the silky voice still skirting the back of his mind and growling breaths panting in his ear, he felt the slight press of points settle in his skin, not quite digging.

Well ... _now_ he was panicked.

Nerve officially lost, his eyes popped open, confronting the intruder. He almost choked on his gasp as sharp yellow eyes peered above him in the dimness, judging. How did the beast escape? How did he not feel him leaving his mind and body? And most of all, why was he _purring?_

_Hang on … purring?_ His eyes noticed movement on his chest and he felt something wooly rustle the hairs at his navel. His vision seemed to broaden then, and with some relief—and embarrassment—he noted the weight on his chest was, in fact, a cat.

Curious, steely eyes examined him from a mess of smoky gray fluff, and a tail could be felt lazily flicking against his belly. Kaltagonus, however, wasn't fooled. For all the composure the cat displayed, its claws were still dug into his chest. The cat either didn't know its own strength, or it was nervous. He still had enough of his power at his use to read the feline's emotions: as expected, they read as being quite annoyed. Hefting his gaze higher, he saw the reason for that.

On its fuzzy back proudly stood Argentum, nestled contently with a scroll in his beak. The owl's cool yellow gaze settled on him, and his feathery talons were eased around the back of the cat's neck. In that instant, the Being took back every foul thing he'd ever said about his owl.

However, the cat's ire didn't seem to be directed at him, so with some reluctance in thwarting his proud owl of its duty, Kaltag stared into the haunting pair of eyes on him. He shook his head. "S'okay, Argie."

The weight pressed slightly on his chest as Argentum lowered his head and stared, his intimidating manner of making sure. One corner of his mouth rose as he answered, "Yes, I'm fine. Honestly, I think he wants to kill _you_, not me."

He laughed as the silvery owl ruffled his feathers indignantly, but nonetheless obeyed, pulling a clawed foot off the feline and flapping out of reach across the room, facing away from them. The cat's claws pulled out from his skin instantly but its grayish eyes tracked Argentum with vigilance, lividly promising much pain to come. In the midst of a chuckle, Kaltag noticed the leather band around the cat's neck, and the dull silver disc reflecting in soft light a faded word.

"Massimo," he quietly read. Immediately, the cat's ears pricked up, and its furry pewter face swiveled away from watching Argentum. "That your name, then? Hmf. Snape has a fluffy pet that won't kill me as soon as look at me?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he caught movement from the shadows near his cupboard, startling him into action. Before he could properly sit up, a dark blur leapt on his bed, and he was met with a second pair of sharp yellow eyes.

"Or two," he continued lamely, settling a hand in the short black fur of the newest feline. The cat warily eyed him as he brought a hand to the leather collar and held the tag between his fingers. "Marta, huh?" He frowned, flatly saying to himself, "Snape's got pets. Unbelievable."

Massimo mewled in response and joined Marta in staring intently at Argentum, who had kept a critical eye on the entire scene from his perch on a wooden chair in the corner. Shaking his head at their antics, he carefully shifted the cats off of him and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, patting back a yawn with one hand and grappling the bedside table with the other.

His wand rolled under his hand and he picked it up, quickly murmuring the spell to curtail the whispers for the rest of the morning. The last thing he needed was the beast bursting forth and slaughtering half the merchants in the Square before he was taken down; provided he _could_ be taken down.

He'd barely left the bed before Marta leapt gracefully over a grooming Massimo and nestled into his pillow, the expression on her pointy face daring him to argue. "I'll bet you don't do that with Snape."

She regarded him with cool eyes, unmoved. But he couldn't be fussed, really, considering the veil that swathed his blithe mind.

Gathering his clothes took twice as long as usual, having grabbed everything that wasn't clothing or toiletries more than thrice and absently continuing the mindless scavenger hunt. By the time he'd pulled out the extra pillowcases Erastus packed for the fourth time, Kaltagonus had given up his futile ferreting and headed to the bathroom for a quick wash.

He'd returned to the same scene in the bedroom, the cats lazing on his bed and Argentum still across the room, glaring at them, post still in his beak. He'd ignored the owl's reproachful look and took the letter, set his towel down and broke the dark seal.

The script was familiar, scratchy, and undoubtedly that of Spiridon's. Something sharp twisted in his chest for a split second before it was stifled, probably by the spell or the cuff on his wrist as he read the words. It was a simple reminder about his _kouros_ this morning, followed by more useless information about '_the best attire to clothe oneself in.'_

He didn't waste time reading the rest and crushed the paper in his fist, flinging it to the rubbish bin beside his bedside table. He had better things to do than to entertain the man's lofty demands. With a furrowed brow and angry hands, he toweled the rest of himself off, whipping the cloth so sharply that he nearly snapped Argentum in the head.

Though he tried to ignore the note, he honestly did, he couldn't help but feel upset, even while spelled, that the man felt it necessary to order him about from such a distance. Would he ever get away from Spiridon's reach? Would the man find it essential to nitpick at him with two entire seas between them?

The answer was simple: probably not.

Huffing to himself, he quickly threw on his pants and snatched the jeans he'd worn the day before. All at once, several things dropped from the pockets and landed on the floor with varying thuds. With an impatient sigh, he bent to pick them up: the salve to rub his Lamia bite into oblivion, whose scar now served more as a reminder than a tracer; the Ravenstone pendant, a bag of peanuts from the flight days before, and a crumpled piece of paper.

He quickly donned the pendant, thinking the more protection he wore today the better, tossed the nuts on the bookshelf, and unfolded the scrap of paper. Closer inspection revealed it was parchment, and there were a set of penciled numbers scrawled under the wrinkles.

His brow creased as he tried to place the numbers when it suddenly hit him: it was the number Harry had given to him the morning they'd left for summer holiday. The sudden memory of his promise to call floated through his mind and he quietly scoffed. He seriously doubted Snape had any telephones around here, much less anything run by electricity, so a call would be impossible. He dragged a hand through his wet hair and tossed the number back in his trunk. Maybe a missive was in order? He glanced at his owl, busily preening itself, and resolved to send one as soon as he got back. No sense in worrying Harry by keeping quiet. Besides, it wasn't as if he was being very productive here, being held hostage by Snape and Spiridon.

With that thought, he angrily pulled on a shirt, shoved on an old wool hat, threw on trainers and walked over to the balcony. So caught up in his anger he was that he didn't notice how loud the crashing of waves were or how very chilly the room had been due to the sliding door being open. So _that's_ how Argentum got in; however, he couldn't recall ever going near that door, and Snape wouldn't have gone to such trouble....

The Being frowned, peeved, and made a mental note to at least try to block the chubby house-elf from invading his privacy next time. But, as he was already here and he probably would not have taken the initiative to explore the room further himself, he decided a little peek outside wouldn't hurt.

With curious hesitance, Kaltag stuck his head outside and peeked over the side railing. He whistled lowly, staring at the dramatic dive to the bluffs below. Apparently, Snape had found it amusing to give him the room with an unobstructed view of the death drop directly below the veranda. Perhaps he was hinting at something?

Argentum flapped out into the gray skies as he pulled himself back into the room, pocketed his wand, shrugged on a backpack and left. The cats were nowhere in sight. He trudged downstairs, bypassing the breakfast nook and dining room, noting their emptiness as well as the first floor's silence. It wasn't too late in the morning that breakfast would be over, yet Snape couldn't be found. With any luck, the man might've blown himself up during one of his oh-so-prestigious experiments, freeing him at last. That certainly put a spring in his step.

So he nearly stumbled in his own cocky swagger not because he'd spotted Snape in the drawing room—with company, that which he'd avowed he would never have—but when he saw what Snape was doing. The man was speaking. With his hands.

Sign language, he distantly realized. Well, this was unexpected. His brow furrowed and he paused a little ways outside the doorway, staring. He had no idea Snape knew sign language. Not that he cared to know anything about the surly professor, he hurriedly reminded himself.

Snape's mood was one of exasperation, if his rapidly moving hands were anything to go by. The heavily-robed wizard with whom he was speaking looked quite baffled, his brow wrinkled slightly, and the patch of gray and brown fuzz on his knobby chin quivering as if he wanted to say something. He made a wide gesture with his hand and grunted something, to which Snape's eyes noticeably narrowed. Kaltag decided now would be the best time to make his presence known if only to spare the poor man from potentially being torn to bits by the visibly annoyed Snape.

Rapping his knuckles lightly on the doorframe, the redhead offered a short smile to the unknown guest, who tipped his stumpy hat a little, and turned to Snape. He lowered his eyebrows a fraction, noting the Potion Master's scowl was not as tense today as it usually was. As well, he looked even sallower than usual. Not that he cared, he reminded himself again. He didn't. Really.

"Sign language, huh?" he mildly asked. "What prompted that?"

Snape pursed his lips; his eyes darkened. The other wizard looked quite worried and split his attention between them with wide eyes.

"What, is it another way to curse your students without getting reported? I promise I won't tell a soul." When Snape's only response was the hardening of his brow the Being decided he had better quit now before the professor hurled him through a window (or off a very high terrace). "Right. Y'know, as fun as this is you'll have to excuse me: I'm going out," he said flatly, arching an eyebrow in challenge before turning away.

"Not so fast, Mr. Smythe."

Of course not. He was an idiot to think he could escape without an excuse. "Where are you going and why?"

The redhead frowned, turning on his heel and leaning on the doorframe. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear the first time: _I'm going out._ That's all the information you need to know." He narrowed his eyes as Snape's upper lip curled into a snarl. "See? I'm following your rules: I'm keeping to myself and so should you. I don't appreciate the third degree."

"Nor am _I _pleased about being spoken down to like a four-year-old, boy," the dark-eyed wizard drawled with a dangerous edge to his tone. "So let _me_ make myself clear: you are not leaving this house until you give sufficient answers to my questions. Remember, the more difficult you choose to be, the longer you stay in this house."

"Do you really want that?"

"That's five seconds gone."

He nodded his head at the stumpy man, who was hopping from foot to foot in trepidation behind Snape. "You do have a guest waiting, d'you know that?"

"Seven."

"You cheeky f—"

"Two seconds."

"You know, I don't have to—"

"Another two. My, one would start to think you enjoy my company, Mr. Smythe, since you are incredibly keen on delaying your little excursion."

He growled. "_Snape_."

"Ah! Nearly half a minute wasted." The professor's lips stretched into a smile dripping with sarcasm. What he wouldn't give to knock the smirk off his face right now! But that would certainly make their mealtimes quite uncomfortable, and he'd had enough discomfort in this house after only two nights. Instead, he resigned himself to a brisk sigh and swore he'd follow through on his yearnings for violence later.

"Fine. I've got to sit for my _kouros._ Happy?"

"Overjoyed."

Kaltag rolled his eyes, throwing him an infuriated look before he turned away.

"One more thing, boy," Snape called after him.

He sighed affectedly and crossed his arms, confronting the Potions Master with a scowl. "What now? You want to tag along and come see me in all my wondrous glory, then? Heard the sculptor's a bit of a pervert, so you two'll get along just fine."

Snape closed his eyes for long moments, his fists stiffening at his sides. It was quite impressive that he'd thwarted his urges to throttle him for this long. When he opened his eyes, he crisply replied, "_Respice, adspice, prospice."_ That said, Snape pursed his lips ever so slightly before facing visitor and making another brusque gesture with his hands.

Kaltag simply stared, bemused. "Is that your mantra?"

He wouldn't exactly say that his stomach took an unpleasant dive through the floorboards when Snape turned and graced him with a final menacing look ... but it had certainly fallen past his knees.

"You'll see."

With one last wryly raised eyebrow, Snape again faced the stranger, fingers curving and hands moving in all directions, their conversation officially ended.

Kaltag narrowed his eyes, bewildered yet annoyed by Snape's cryptic ... creepiness, but decided he'd better get a move on if he wanted to visit the _agora_ before the place swarmed with aggravating merchants. Casting one last glance at the maddened wizard's back, he trudged down the stairs and out the door into the gray, sunless chill of wet early morning. As he shut the door behind him and took to the path, he thought he saw the hanging ivy shift behind him, but decided it was just the wind. Funny. He hadn't noticed a breeze.

ooooo

A young man was there to greet him in the entrance of the sculptor's shop when he arrived. There was a look of absolute boredom on his face, which was frowning down at today's edition of the _Herald_. Even the loud clang of the door's bell produced nothing, not even a crinkle in the corner of his eye.

Before he even opened his mouth the young Celestial croaked, "_Kouros?"_ without taking his eyes off the newspaper. Kaltag nodded, but seeing that the man wasn't about to tear away from the paper gave a verbal affirmation. "Go through that door, through the corridor, past the statues, hang-a left to the changing rooms, disrobe everything—"

"Everything?"

"_Everything_," the young Being drearily stressed. "When you leave the changing area, follow the corridor back down, down, down—"

"You do this a lot, don't you?"

"Do not disrupt me." He finally drew away from the _Herald_ long enough to level him with a black look.

Amused grin effectively wiped from his face, Kaltagonus quickly amended with, "Uhh—Sorry. S—go on."

The scowling receptionist gave him a searching look before he resumed his directions. "Go past the curtained off area—that's for the women only," he said with a warning look, "and don't think you can play sneak-a-peek and get away with it. Queen Hera'll have your family jewels for dinner."

"Right."

The young man smirked. "_And,_ there are wards around the area that alert us to intruders and use of defensive magicks."

"Well, there goes Plan B."

"When you come to the open room with a dais and a blank canvas, then obviously you've reached the drawing chamber. Wait for the sculptor there, all right?" Kaltag nodded. "Any questions?"

"No, but—"

"Thank you, carry on." With that, the young man was again engrossed in his copy of the _Herald_, thereby ending their exchange. Snapping his mouth shut, Kaltag moved past the table—the Being still did not react—and through the entryway.

The sight that met him was astonishing. Hundreds of statues larger than life made up rows upon rows, like columns lining a walkway that was easily the length of the Great Hall.

"_And don't touch anything!" _came the warning shout from the anteroom.

Rolling his eyes, Kaltag hefted his backpack higher on his shoulder and advanced down the lane, taking in every face of every statue he passed. The closer he got to the other side of the room, the less primitive the statues became, from the basic Archaic structures to the Hellenistic figures of old. He spotted all twelve of the _Dodekatheon_ and some of the old subjects of myth: Adonis, Hyakinthos, Narcissus, Helen, Narcissus, Ganymede, Narcissus, Narcissus, Narcissus....

Stone and marble were the mediums used for most sculptures, he noted, and vaguely wondered if Spiridon chose which one would be used for him as well. He didn't dwell long enough on those thoughts to be angry, for as soon as he reached the latter third of statues, he found likenesses he was quite familiar with.

Thanos' marble face was one of the first he'd recognized; the boy's ridiculously keen jaw line could be seen from space. A number of Yorick's family, young and old, filled about two rows; his old sport captain Gilliam was wedged between Basil's older sister and Faryn Dufresne, who even in marble struck a pose that should have been outlawed. He reached the final row, halting immediately before a startled laugh left him and he moved forward briskly. Kaltag grinned widely, spotting a face that was quite a sight for sore eyes.

He cast a fleeting look over his shoulder to make sure the tetchy receptionist wasn't tailing him or peeking around a marble leg. When no such snooping Celestial was spotted, Kaltag took a chance and fingered the letters engraved in the base of the carving. With a wistful smirk, he peered back up into the carved face boasting a ghost of a smile.

"Fancy meeting you here, friend."

He never expected Icarus' great marble head to swing in his direction to reply, "Likewise."

The figure of his best friend gave a hoot of laughter as he staggered back, stunned. "You can talk."

"Obviously."

The redhead frowned, cocking his head sideways. This development was quite unexpected. "But ... you can _talk."_

"Yes, but don't ask me to tap dance."

"Why would I? And can you?"

"Because I know you and no, I can't," he replied, amused. Well. He couldn't argue there.

"Pity," he grumbled, "because I was going to ask if you could point that somewhere else. You're going to take someone's eye out with that thing."

Marble-Icarus snorted. "You're just green with envy."

"Oh, I'm green with something, all right, but it sure isn't envy."

"Then stop staring at it."

"Uh-huh." Kaltag nodded, averting his gaze and gnawing on his lower lip. "This is—this is odd. I'm talking to you, my best friend, but you're a stone, you're—a bleeding ... _rock_ that can put words together to make a sentence but there's nothing but pebbles between your ears."

"Hey, now, don't be nasty," scolded Icarus. "Pretty soon, you're going to be right here beside me stringing two words together to make sentences and _you'll_ have stone between your ears, too."

"But..." he sighed a helpless sigh, then shook himself. "You know, I think I'm beginning to take this whole thing for granite."

The _kouros_ of Icarus narrowed its vacant eyes, but somehow, they were still full of mirth. "Granite. You can do better than that."

"I-I could," agreed Kaltag with the barest of smiles, "but I'm a stone's throw away from being late."

"Rubbish! My cousin can do better than that and he's a _boulder_." At his right, the titter from Isis' _kore_ echoed throughout the hall.

Kaltag waved him off as he backed toward the corridor to the changing rooms. "Fine, fine. When I come back, I promise I'll have better ones. Um ... don't move."

The statue snorted. "Oh, "_don't move",_ he says! You're a _riot_...."

He laughed quietly to himself as he veered left down the candlelit hall. It had been ages since he'd laughed this easily. Too bad it was with a replica and not his true best friend. Mood instantly sobered, Kaltag made it through the hall and to the back of the colonnaded chamber. He absently noticed the handful of statues spread around the area, so focused he was on what was to come.

His throat burned, his heart pounded a brisk cadence and the mark on his back rose a few degrees. It hadn't exactly escaped his notice out there that ninety-nine percent of the _kouroi_ had been stark naked. And everything was shown in great detail. Not to mention he'd now known all he could know about his classmates and even some of his professors; small price to pay for eternal recognition. Thank God Snape didn't have one ... he _really_ hoped.

Though he'd known this moment was coming for years, he was still a tad uncomfortable with the whole scenario. But he needed to do it, no matter what he felt. It was expected of him; it was history and legacy in the making. Besides, he knew if he didn't go through with it today, Zeus would likely force him to do it privately and insist on being there the _entire_ session, and goodness knows _that_ would be ten times worse than he could ever imagine.

Grimacing, he set his bag down on the bench and took a fortifying breath. It was now or never. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled off his shirt and stuffed it in his bag. Good. Easy part was over with. He loosed a shaky breath from his throat and slid his fingers over his gleaming belt buckle. _No hesitation_, he coached himself. _Do it, get out there, and get back as fast as you can._ He could do this. He _had_ to do this, he reminded himself; all of his friends were out there, and pretty soon Nikola and Starbuck were going to pop in and it'd be quite obvious if his _kouros_ wasn't out there to greet them. Nikola wouldn't let him rest until he got it done, so...

_Just do it_. He sucked in a deep breath, sliding his belt through the loop.

"Well, well. Look who's gone and branded himself."

Kaltag spun around quickly, yanking his hand back from his waistband. Upon realizing who it was, he groaned aloud, dropping his head back on a nearby column. "Fantastic." Of all the days Spiridon could have made an appointment, he had to choose the same day Androcles-bloody-Xenik was scheduled, too?

The dark-haired Being smirked as he slid the last strap of his sandals in place. "Does your father know about your new body art, Smythe?"

"That's none of your business, Xenik. Here for what ... your fourth _kouros,_ or for the floor-to-ceiling mirrors?" He nodded to a circle of columns in the center of the room, each fitted with reflective surfaces.

Xenik responded with a noise somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. He tensed as his bright-eyed rival stood up and approached him, a look of pure trouble on his face. Kaltagonus eyed his every step closely, the essence of vigilance. His heart pounded faster and just that little bit harder as Xenik closed in, sneer firmly in place. He wasn't about to be caught off his guard just because he was on holiday; especially not around someone as dangerous as Androcles.

"My second, actually."

"Ohh, your se—my, what an ego you have. Are you going in for a third, then?"

Androcles leered. "Would you like to know what it was?"

"I'm just _bursting_," he dryly replied. He inwardly chided himself for not checking the room to avoid this kind of mess.

When Xenik moved behind him, he held his ground despite the warning burn on his back and the answering sting of his wrist cuff. Ordinarily, he would have never let Xenik out of sight, but a tiny part of him knew that the hazel-eyed troublemaker wouldn't do anything. _Too_ _damaging_, he mentally added.

He kept Xenik in his peripheral vision as the other Being stopped directly behind him, settled a hand on one shoulder (the band on his wrist sizzled against his skin), and leaned in close. The heat of his breath sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine as he whispered, "See that satyr, just over there?"

Androcles lifted his other hand to point at a marble faun fast asleep across the room, tucked behind thick pillars. And Kaltagonus could see why: the way the creature posed would make even the _hetaerae_ blush. His substantial ... _family_ _jewels_ slung over his bloody hindquarters like—

Kaltag froze, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. He flinched as Androcles' breathy chuckle blew across his ear. "I was thinking of giving that to your sister, Smythe. Unless you want it all for yourself?"

He couldn't help it: in that moment, saw red. In a flash he'd grabbed Xenik's arm and tried to twist it behind his back, but the other boy was too quick and strong enough to break free. "You sick bastard," he snarled, shoving the cackling menace across the room.

"Shoddy work. Someone's out of practice."

"And someone'll be out of valuable body parts if they don't get the hell out of here."

Xenik's eyes brimmed with silver as he put a challenging foot forward. "Are you gonna make me?"

"You wanna try?"

"Public place, Smythe. You can't force me to go anywhere."

"But _I_ can."

Both boys spun around to face the authoritative voice that had put a cap on their escalating dispute. Out of the shadows, a stalwart figure emerged, bronze skin clad in military garb. He immediately felt the heat of Androcles' fury shrink back in deference, but he still held his ground, nearly cheek to cheek with him.

At first glance, Kaltagonus had thought of Daedelus or Eomel, as the soldier wore the Battalion's emblem. But upon further inspection, he noticed the sweeping crimson cloak where the Battalion's would have been black: so he was a Spartan. Kaltagonus inwardly groaned. Could this day possibly get any worse?

This new stranger was frowning, albeit in amusement, as he approached them without hurry. Androcles' reaction was instant: he stood straighter and pulled away from him, leaving an arm's length of space between them. Ass.

"That's not very nice," said the soldier to Xenik. "Antagonizing Father Zeus' heir. Is it not unwise to risk his wrath, then?"

Xenik's jaw clenched. "I suppose so."

The older Celestial nodded. "Good. Then if you have no other business here, I suggest you take your leave, boy. Quickly."

He would have fallen into a fit of laughter had the warring tensions between Androcles and the Spartan not consumed the air in the room. It was as if they were two statues themselves, unmoving and more inflexible than marble. Then, unsurprisingly, Xenik relented. Kaltag, on the other hand, wasn't in the least bit surprised. After all, he _was_ going up against a _Spartan_, one of the worst soldiers one could ever dare to resist. Just because he was part of the Battalion did not mean he would show restraint to boldfaced disobedience.

A parting glare at both of them was Xenik's last act of bravado before he tramped out of the room, throwing dirty looks over his shoulder. Cheeky bugger.

Speaking of cheeky buggers, Kaltag rounded on the Battalion's soldier, momentarily taken aback by the pleased expression on his face. Taking the wind out of a teenager's sails could not have been _that_ gratifying, could it?

Before the man could get a word in, he bluntly inquired, "Did Spiridon send you?"

The Spartan's lips tightened. "You're welcome."

"What? Oh, well," he mumbled, shrugging. "I had it sorted."

"With harsh words and fists?"

"Like I said: sorted."

The older Being gave a disbelieving snort. "Ephebes."

"Nevertheless, thank you...?" he trailed, glancing at his decoration.

"Colonel Anthir Markès."

"_Colonel_ Markès. So that would mean you're ... fifth in command?"

"Fourth."

"Ah, makes all the difference," said Kaltag. "You still didn't answer my question: did the General send you?"

Markès' brow creased slightly at his prickly tone, but he shook his head. "No. Your father did not send me. Rather, your grandfather did." At his raised eyebrow, Markès nodded to the wooden box in his hands that he hadn't noticed before. "He had a selection of jewels and armaments assembled for you to choose from when the day arrived."

"Jewels?" croaked the ginger-haired Being.

"Just in case, of course," Markès silkily replied, though he balanced the box on one arm to raise the lid a little bit. Even with the sparse lighting of candles throughout the room, Kaltagonus could see the glittering of many jewels. "A crown, and some weaponry in the sculptor's room."

He shifted uncomfortably. "A crown?" he repeated with distress. "I don't—"

"I must insist, your highness. The High King expects this of you."

"Ugh." As if it stealing the throne wasn't brazen enough, now he had to be carved _in stone_ wearing the crown that never even belonged to him? He breathed sharply through his nose. "Did I have any choice in the matter before you walked into this room?"

Markès' grin was mild. "Never."

"You're honest, I'll give you that."

"Thank you, your highness, but you cannot delay any longer. The sculptor becomes quite difficult when his subjects are tardy."

Kaltagonus huffed, crossing his arms. Amazingly enough, he'd almost forgotten why he'd come in the first place. It still did not make thoughts of the experience any more pleasant. Rolling his eyes he moved back to the bench where he'd left his shirt and bag. He was in the process of sliding his belt off when he remembered one glaring problem.

"Um ... Colonel?"

"Your highness?" Markès immediately stepped closer, eagerness flowing from every pore.

"Uh..." he pointedly glanced at his trousers and back to the Spartan.

Markès' eyes widened. "My apologies. I will look away, your highness." Kaltagonus arched an eyebrow skeptically. "I promise. You can trust me."

Without another word he turned around and walked to a distant statue of Apollo, circled behind it and gave him some semblance of privacy.

Kaltagonus blinked. "This is still awkward," he announced, and was answered by his own echoes. The Colonel did not respond, however, and Kaltagonus knew whether he liked it or not, Markès was not leaving. God ... sometimes, he really hated being a Being.

oooooooooo

* * *

**A/N:** I'm truly sorry for the lengthy delay. Hopefully I'll be able to finish the story and the series now that I've got some semblance of my mojo back. HUGE THANKS to those who poked and prodded me to update!

**A/N 2: **As school has picked back up, I'm not sure when I'll be able to update. I will try to release a new chapter by next month. If, however, I appear not to, I give you full permission to spam me with junk mail. Thanks for stick around, and thank you kindly for reading!


	6. 6: Hubris, Pt II

**The Best Intentions**

**Disclaimer:** I **do not** hold any claim to the _Harry Potter_ franchise, nor am I profiting from this.

_Am I? – Inward thoughts._

**_Kill it._**_ – Golradir thought-speech._

**Six****:** Hubris, Part II

The walk to the sculptor's venue was mercifully short. Unfortunately for Kaltag, Colonel Markès saw the need to escort him there and, noticing his discomfort by being the only one of them unclothed (have these people never heard of decorative plants, something—_anything_ he could hide behind?), proceeded to offer some peculiar words of wisdom.

"I would not be ashamed," began Markès, sliding closer as the corridor narrowed. "Nor should you be."

"Ah! Ha ... I'm not—I'm—it's, heh—_pfft!"_ he stammered, shaking his head. "I'm not. It's just ... cold."

"Cold?" Markès clearly didn't look or sound convinced.

He freed a hand (uselessly tugging at the shirt that wasn't there) and jerked it toward one of the curtained doorways. "Yes. Besides, I'm less ashamed and more on edge. Do you know how many naked people are around us right now, in these very rooms?"

Markès' brow creased, his expression growing serious. "Hera bore us into the world nude, and nude we should be," he reasoned. "There is nothing to be ashamed of: we are all brothers."

With a wry laugh, the young Being replied, "Well, I don't know about you, but I don't go around flashing my goods to my brother."

But shaking his head, Markès said, "I don't see what the problem is."

"Yes, well, you _wouldn't_, seeing as you've still got all your clothes on. And please keep them _on,_ Spartan."

The soldier's face crumpled for a fraction of a second, but the expression disappeared. Kaltag, however, caught the tinge of annoyance and frowned, bemused by the Spartan's reaction. "Problem, Colonel?"

Markès' dark eyes glittered as he cast a look in his direction, then eyed the corridor ahead. A groove formed between his eyebrows and he sighed, saying, "Permission to speak freely, your highness?"

He shrugged. "So long as you don't call me that, go on."

"Do you have something against Sparta?"

It had to be a trick question. An amused smirk crossed his face. "Depends. How long've you got?"

In spite of his jest, the Colonel clearly failed to see the humor. Instead, his frown etched deeper lines in his handsome face. Immediately, Kaltag sobered. "It's not..." he broke off with a sigh, averting his gaze from Markès' expectant face to the open entryway of the sculptor's room. "Look, everyone knows Spartans are ... _rough_."

"You put it so nicely."

"Ruthless, then."

Markès nodded once. "More like it. And for that ruthlessness, you hate us."

"I didn't say that."

"Your expression—"

"Forget my expression."

"—is very clear."

"Then clearly, you're reading the wrong expression."

"Am I?" snorted Markès. "Your face shows contempt, your body is stiffer than a long sword, and you've yet to give me a direct answer. A naked body never lies."

At the latter statement Kaltagonus turned bright red, and again endeavored to conceal himself. Defiantly, he argued, "I know Spartans. Daedelus is from Sparta. I like _him_."

An expression close to derision lit the Colonel's face. "You know _a _Spartan. And the Vice Admiral is as far removed from Spartan as a Mortal is Olympian."

"Excuse me?"

"His prolonged contact with humans has made him weak, soft-hearted," Markès growled. "I daresay if he were to return home, he would not last a week among our brethren."

Scandalized by his scornful tone, Kaltag hotly upbraided, "Watch your pride, Colonel."

Markès' scowl eased and for a brief moment. His face took on a patronizing look. "Forgive me, highness."

For a lengthy span of time they stared at each other, the young Being scowling at the elder's unrepentant sneer. It was then Kaltagonus dimly realized they'd paused at the entrance to the sculptor's room as they'd continued their disagreement through quiet hisses. Sighing, he kept one hand blocking his front and rubbed the other hard across his cheek.

"Look—"

"We're here," said Markès tersely, nodding toward the room. Kaltag stole a quick glance and noticed their conversation wasn't as private as he'd anticipated. There was a shadow lurking in a doorway far across the room, virtually invisible in the dimness were it not for the loud clacks retreating deeper into the back.

He snorted. "Zeus' damn spies are everywhere."

"The sculptor does not like to be kept waiting," resumed Markès. "If you have no other need of me, I shall take my leave ... that is, unless you want me to stay?"

Routing his gaze from the darkened doorway to the expectant soldier, the young Being shook his head. "No. I think this place has filled its ego quota for the day and you've already got your eyeful, so your services are no longer needed. Thank you, Colonel."

He seriously hoped Markès' frown was more out of previous anger than present disappointment at being denied. The men of Olympus were not lechers. Not all of them, at any rate.

Markès respectfully bowed. "Understood, your highness."

"Ahh, don't. _Don't_." With a curt, nod Colonel Markès turned to leave. He was half way down the corridor when the boy suddenly remembered. "Uh, the things you brought—jewels and weaponry. What should I do with them? I mean, I expect Zeus'll be wanting those back?"

"That he will. Be sure to leave them at the front," the soldier called over his shoulder. "You wouldn't want me chasing you down."

"No, I wouldn't," he wryly murmured, rolling his eyes. Just as he was about to enter the room, the jerky swirl of Markès' crimson cape caught the edge of his vision.

"By the way," he called from the end of the corridor, "you look good, your highness."

Before he could protest the cursed title, the smirking Spartan turned the corner, leaving Kaltagonus red-faced and more than aware of his nude state in the very public hallway. Scowling down the empty hall, he turned away and entered the venue. He had better things to do than entertain a hardnosed warmonger, creepy pervert or no.

The sculptor's room was as the greeter had described it: furnished with a bare canvas and a raised platform, but enormous. Several long mirrors stood along the high-ceilinged four walls leaving no angle untried and undiscovered. The weapons Markès mentioned consisted of an impressive display of swords, spears, shields and other armaments sitting in a neat row against one wall.

Yet what caught the Being's attention was not the bland décor, but a nearby cloth wadded on the ledge of an easel. A wave of relief surged through him and snatching it quickly, he circled it round his hips, then sighed, his anxiety a mite eased. He knew it was a waste of time and that the sculptor would force him to scrap his grubby, makeshift barrier, but dignity wouldn't allow him to stand there exposed while he needn't be. If Spiridon taught him anything, it was the importance of first impressions: namely, that this was the paragon of how _not_ to introduce oneself. It was especially daunting after hearing such upsetting accounts of his mates' sessions with the sculptor. Words worse than "lecherous," "cringe-worthy," and "disturbing" were tossed around to describe their sculpting encounters.

Fortunately, the room was vacant at the moment (at least he hoped), with the exception of the sparse furniture for company. He got as far as studying the seemingly empty back room filled with what appeared to be tables of pint-sized copies of the statues out front (the thought of a mini Icarus was wrong on so many levels) before he could avoid it no longer. Taking a fortifying breath, he stared at his reflection.

When he noticed his own blank eyes staring back at him, his fraught nerves lessened a little bit more. Since that first night back in Athens, he hadn't been able to get a proper look at himself. He thought he'd have that small mercy at Snape's, but it seemed for as unsightly as the man's appearance was, he had quite a few mirrors on hand. Besides the loo, Kaltag had narrowly avoided the one opposite the closet in his quarters, the nook, and the reflective surfaces as well. He had no idea if there were more squirreled away on the ground floor; Snape still refused him access down there.

Continuing his study, he swept his gaze from his crown right down to his wiggling toes and back. First, he inspected his hair: it would be the first thing anyone would notice, given how gray his skin looked. It was still fiery red but duller somehow, flat. His lanky form was a few shades paler than normal—too close to Snape's for his liking—and the bruises from weeks ago had all but faded. The Lamia mark was much lighter than when he'd last really looked at it, but that would never truly fade away. His face was the definition of gaunt, complete with bony cheeks and grayish, circled eyes. All in all he was thinner, more scrawny than brawny, his once nicely-rounded muscles and curves sharper, angled. Raising a hand, he drew a finger across one of the wan arcs of his cheeks.

He winced. It couldn't be helped; he looked ... ill. Diseased. Wrong. Strange sight, he was: the physical manifestation of unhappiness. If such a thing existed. It was beyond not eating enough and stewing in fear and rebellion. More than hiding behind a spell and beneath the covers. And although he desperately wanted to lay the blame on the company he was keeping, nothing could deny the genuine truth. This was not _him_; not the real him. This wrongness started weeks ago, when _he'd_ shown up. As if answering him, his bound wrist warmed with caution.

After scrutinizing every disappointing aspect on his front, the redhead lowered his hand back at his side. Immediately, his gaze was drawn to identical black marks curved round his waist.

Oh. _That_. What, was he expecting it to disappear as quickly as his Lamia bites?

Drawing another calming breath, Kaltagonus turned his back to the mirror. Black as night, as sin, his eyes first spotted the strange avian mark on his lower back. It was quite detailed now that he had a good look at it, and among his mates, it would be something to admire, to garner envy, especially from Starbuck. Even Androcles had nothing bad to say about it.

But the fact remained he didn't _want_ this. There wasn't even an explanation as to why he _had_ it; well, he was sure there was, but he wasn't about to ask it of the creature. With a rut forming between his eyebrows, he carefully loosened his fistful of cloth, dropping it a few centimeters to see how far the artwork extended. The bird's tail ended right above his bum, but that was peculiar. Last time he'd examined the tattoo, it seemed a few notches lower than that.

The sound of a gravely throat clearing had him balling the ends of the cloth back tightly in his fist and whipping around to face the intruder. A wrinkly old man no taller than his sister emerged from the back room, pate bald and dotted with liver spots but for a sad tuft of silver-white hair ringing his head from ear to ear. The sharp clack of wood on stone was audible with every step forward, and as he came further into view the young Celestial took notice of the artist's walking stick. There was a jut to his jaw and a stoop to his stature, not at all helped by his over-long limbs that made him resemble an orangutan more than a man. As he dragged closer Kaltagonus half expected him to lope forward on his knuckles.

With a crooked yellow smile that revealed several gaps of missing teeth, the sculptor raised his free hand and gestured to the dais expectantly. Kaltag watched him with rapt attention as he moved closer and closer, never taking his eyes off him for a second. Very guardedly he approached the platform and ascended the short steps, fist tingling and sweaty from securing his wrap so tightly.

"You are?"

"Uh—Smythe," he answered, so deep into his vigilance he nearly forgot his own name.

The sculptor made a noise of acknowledgement before waving his staff. Instantly a stool materialized, followed by a thick stack of papyrus beneath a small canvas pouch. He brushed the bag aside and, surprisingly for his age, began flipping through the papyrus pages quickly until he was well halfway into the book. After watching the sculptor's face turn from preoccupied to bemused, Kaltagonus pressed, "Problem?"

"You're not here," he grunted.

"I should be."

"But you're _not_," he insisted with a fierce look. "What'd you say yer name was again?"

"Smythe." After a beat he added, "It's my surname."

The sculptor's creased brow evened out. He narrowed his eyes. "Firs' names only." With an annoyed huff, the redhead gave his name. "Hmm," was the sculptor's reply, followed by a look that scanned him so thoroughly the young Being tensed his grip on the towel. The old man was practically undressing him, but what more could he possibly want to ogle that he wouldn't be eyeballing the next few hours?

His probing look persisted well after he'd sat down and spent the next few minutes shuffling papers and sharpening drawing tools. Kaltagonus' eyes never left him. "Classical or Hellenistic?"

The question threw him off, but he quickly realized he had no preference for either. He shrugged. "What would you suggest?"

"The Classical is the ideal; it, eh ... shows your admirers your perfect form," he explained through halting speech, setting his tools aside. "The Hellenistic is ... it's you in all yer imperfections. The ones you see, an' the ones the world the world don't want yeh to know are there."

Leaning heavily on his stick, the sculptor stood with a grunt, grinning. As he approached, the wary teenager felt his wrist cuff warming against his skin. "The Hellenistic is thorough, and particular; to choose it assures many, _many_ more private sittings for us," said the sculptor with a toothy leer. "We'll know each other quite well, highness. You'll get used to my hands-on approach."

"And if you put your _hands_ _on_ any part of me I'll shove that easel down your throat, _then_ have you arrested."

The old man chuckled in response, and with a circular wave of his hand, produced a battered-looking cup. For a second, Kaltagonus thought the man had fashioned a drink for himself, but the sculptor then stretched toward him, nearly raising himself to the tips of his toes to offer the cup. He just stared, unmoving.

"S'not poison."

"You'd be an idiot if you tried."

He insistently pressed forwards. "To calm your nerves."

"I never said I was nervous."

Wordlessly, aged eyes glanced down at his towel-swathed waist. Kaltagonus followed his gaze.

Right. He'd given himself away long before the sculptor had shown up. Since it would be rude to reject the offer, he had no choice but to receive it. He couldn't risk word of this defiance getting back to Zeus—or worse, Spiridon. God only knew what they'd do to him for bringing such disrespect on the household. Not that it mattered anymore, but for the sake of appearances (and avoiding a tanned hide), he decided to play along. He silently accepted the cup, throwing the sculptor a cagey stare. The old man just smiled, giving an urging nod toward the drink.

Lowering his gaze to the cup, Kaltagonus noted the dark liquid sloshing inside, boasting the faint sickly-sweet scent of wine. Harmless enough, but erring on the side of caution, he raised the lip of the cup to his nostrils and inhaled. Nothing about the bouquet was off, except for the slight musty odor to which it clung. Obviously he sculptor didn't indulge every one of his clients often. Pulling back with a frown, Kaltagonus gave the man a curious look—he pushed him on with a shake of his walking stick before returning to his stool—and inwardly frowned. Strange. It seemed there was no treachery at work here. With an alert stare, he raised the cup to his mouth and watched his reflection as the wine rolled toward his lips—and stopped.

He'd felt something. Like a ghost of a warning touch gripping his elbow, holding him back. He quickly glanced at his arm—the touch felt so real—to see nothing. Uncertainty peaking, he peered down at the sculptor, busy sketching his outline and casting furtive looks from the corner of his eye. Frowning, he cast a sweeping look over the room to find nothing out of place.

Paranoia: that was it. He was just paranoid. He scoffed quietly under breath: that was the last time he listened to his schoolmates' stories. With a roll of his eyes and an invisible grasp on his nerves, he moved to drink again.

This time he felt the change: his cuff tightened like a warm hand circling his wrist. Kaltagonus jerked back from the drink with a bemused look. Surely the beast...? No, it wasn't possible, couldn't be. But there was no other reason for him to feel as if he were being thwarted. So was it ... _warning_ him?

As if in answer, the mark on his back warmed. Narrowing his eyes at his handful, then at the lingering artist, he accused, "What'd you do to this?"

At the sculptor's scandalized splutter he once again raised the cup to his nose and inhaled. Still, he found nothing off with the scent, but something deep down was churning with unrest. _Something's there,_ he almost heard it say. _Something's definitely there._ After taking another lungful of the sweet scent, he was ready to give up and mutter his apologies to the enraged sculptor when he inhaled so deeply he felt as though he was swimming in a sea of the goblet's liquid.

He almost missed it. A heady, musky, sensual odor, cleverly masked by the wine's strong bouquet. The small whiff of liquid arousal was enough to mark a stinging path that burned his throat and prickled the hairs on the back of his neck and ... elsewhere. He smirked.

"Satyr blood."

In a most comical manner, the sculptor's sketching tool clattered to the floor. A stricken look crossed his countenance for the briefest moment. Kaltagonus rather thought he looked like Starbuck after he'd learned that Santa Claus was really Erastus and Daedelus unpacking gifts from the padlocked cool-box in the basement. After a beat, the old man eyed him, a crooked glower twisting his face into a nasty expression. His eyes shone more with surprise than frustration, to which Kaltagonus widened his smirk. He hated to think of how many the old pervert had compelled into his "hands-on" _modus_ _operandi_ before him. Too many.

Before he could say a word, the sculptor furiously brandished his staff at the battered goblet and Vanished it. "Let's begin, shall we?" he crossly said, his tone more hostile than earlier. A mocking smile crossed his face. "Wouldn't want to delay his highness from his business."

"Yes you would."

With a lecherous yellow grin to his snide remark, the aged sculptor waved his sketching devices beside him and evenly replied, "Yes. I would. Towel _off_."

The wrist cuff tingled and sparked with heat while the Ravenstone pendant he'd forgotten around his neck grew hot on his chest. Holding _him_ in, he supposed. Not that he blamed the creature for wanting the old man's blood, not after the stunt he'd pulled. He just needed to remember to Spell himself before and after often, or else their later meetings would amount to disaster. With his stomach in knots but his face betraying little, he let the towel fall away, drifting to the floor with all the fanfare of a deflated balloon. When the sculptor's eyes unabashedly roved along his unseen parts, he very nearly wished the spell would have fallen along with it.

For the majority of his sitting, the sculptor remained unreceptive and aloof. He was disagreeable, pushy, and short ("Turn right. Left. Fix your face right or there'll be hell, boy."), tactlessly offering compliments now that he'd been outed ("You've a swimmer's body: lithe and sleek. Strong hands, powerful thighs—" "You can stop right there, thanks."). Such words made the young Being turn unbearably red, though his digs in return were sharp and reproachful ("Remember: you put a spear in my hand and I guarantee you won't be at all missed.").

He was grateful to escape sooner than expected and was a pale blur zipping through the corridor and back to the empty changing room. After popping in for another exchange with his marble mate ("...oh, and those muscles: why, you're rock-hard, mate!"), he reluctantly set up the next appointment—even the receptionist was stunned he'd made it out so quickly—pocketed the discarded newspaper and was relieved to finally make it outside. The only good thing to come from his short session was the time he had left to wander the _agora_. Although there was little he could do but poke in and out of shops, it was a better alternative than lounging around Snape's and waiting for the git to snap at him. And as much as he enjoyed their little exchanges, they were getting old. Fast.

So Kaltagonus lazily spent his time pressing through the usual crush of shoppers in the streets, the deserted alleyways, dusty market stalls and everything in between that was the Square. It was a rather uneventful visit, where the most exciting things he'd done were pick at his lunch, Spell himself, admire some street trinkets, Spell himself some more, and leaf through the _Herald_. There wasn't even excitement in its pages: new openings at Aripedes, the Cabinet tackling war efforts, a missing girl was likely swallowed up in seedy hetaerae business, and there was a two for one special at Bryony's Baklava.

In fact, the only flare up of excitement he'd had all day was when he'd run into Gilliam, his old team captain. But even that lasted all of a second before the out-of-breath man cut through the mausoleum shouting over his shoulder how he was late for Gymnasium. Kaltagonus then decided it was high time he was heading back. Nothing killed his mood faster than talk of Gymnasium or any of the boys-only academies on Olympus. Spending the rest of the evening at Snape's suddenly sounded better than being in a prime position to be snatched and felt up in an abandoned alleyway.

After Spelling himself again he signaled for a carriage. There was absolutely no way he was going to Ripple with a mind full of cotton. It was better he took the scenic ride than risk ending up ten miles off shore in the middle of the Mediterranean. He certainly wasn't about to give Snape that satisfaction.

ooooo

The skies were bruised a darkening mauve when the carriage slewed to a halt at the edge of Snape's property nearly an hour later. He was surprised Snape's wards let the carriage in as close as it did. His stomach made an uncomfortable flip-flop, as half-hearted as he was to be back. Perhaps he should have asked the driver to take them round another two, maybe three times before dropping him off. But the man spoke no more words outside of his usual line of work: destination and price. Although, those professional silences were more bearable to be around than Snape's. Then again, anywhere was better than Snape's. Except maybe Spiridon's. _Definitely_ not Spiridon's.

He remained in the rear of the carriage, staring at the velvety cloth of his seat for a few minutes. The driver said nothing. Either the villa's gloomy aura must have been tangible even from this distance, or he had no other place to be. For whatever reason, Kaltagonus was just grateful he hadn't thrown him out as soon as they'd landed.

He lingered for a few more minutes before dumping a small sack of coins on the front seat and exiting. A word of thanks brimming with subdued surprise was all he heard from the driver before the man jangled the reins and urged the idle horses into full gallop before taking to the skies.

The wrought-iron gate screeched in protest as he booted it open and languorously dragged himself up the dirty path. It was pointless, as he was only delaying the inevitable, but the less time he spent around Snape, the happier he'd be. (If that were even possible at this point in time.)

As he neared the door with his agonizing, slow gait, he thought he saw the hanging ivy twitch. He paused, staring. Funny. Perhaps he shouldn't have had that second stein of honey mead. Kaltagonus continued up the path with a shake of his head, crossed under the archway, and tried the door.

Locked. Big surprise there, Snape locking him out. And he didn't have a key. Not that he'd want one; this wasn't his home after all. Snape made sure to remind him of that every day in not so many words. Not like he was worth being given the time of day for Mister-I-can-brew-my-own-potions-myself-thank-you.

Suddenly filled with anger, he kicked at the thick wood twice. Of course, this did nothing but cause his foot to throb in warning, and his flailing arms made the vines flap harder in the breeze. To hell with knocking. Stupid Snape and his locked doors. Did he not have the common sense to realize that even if humans _did_ climb the mountain—cliff, whatever, they would _never_ find this place? It was warded and Glamoured more than Hogwarts itself! Despite the twinge, he kicked again. And again and again and one last time for good measure.

Then in a moment of total distraction, he realized too late that there had been no breeze on the air.

The vines came to life as soon as he'd tried the handle again. What he once thought of as stringy, lifeless threads had the strength of tropical twine. He gave a start as the flimsy but strong liana coiled like dozens of wiry serpents around his arms and legs, immobilizing him. As Kaltagonus shouted in anger, wrestling against their disabling hold, he cursed Snape a thousand times. He should have known the man would have magical precautions against intruders, distrustful as he was. Stupid, stupid Snape. Why hadn't he said something? Warned him?

_Because it's _Snape_,_ he inwardly snarled, thrashing against his tight captor. _Of course he'd want you to learn the hard way of things. Gives him a good laugh. A good, hearty, evil laugh. Head thrown back, fingers steeped, thick, rich cackles bursting from his yellow-toothed mouth...._

He renewed his struggles, fury giving way to a dash of panic as he felt the ropes of ivy slither across his shoulders to hug his neck. "Snape!" he called, twisting his arms about to break free. He nearly freed a hand but before his fingers scrabbled at the knotty leaves trying to suffocate him, another dozen serpentine threads pulled it back in place. "SNAPE!"

Again he called, thrice, four times, five ... no Snape. Maybe he was out? Polishing off a celebratory drum of firewhiskey, no doubt. _"_Sna—" he rasped, the vines choking off his cry. The ropy tendrils were slowly easing around his neck, almost pulsing as if savoring the moments leading up to his imminent demise. When his hands and legs were completely bound, restrained from shoulders to wrists and thighs to ankles, Kaltagonus kicked his mind into overdrive. Snape had to have a failsafe technique to end this; a spell, or maybe a certain body movement or a password?

"Slytherin?" he said aloud. Nothing. "Salazar? Uh, Potions?" _Potions! _What if the password was an ingredient; a potion itself? Oh, God: what if it was the _composition_ of a potion? He grunted in annoyance, already feeling the ache in his neck: That would be Snape true to form, wouldn't it? Listing a whole damned recipe flawlessly, because of course, _everyone_ could surely do that—!

Recipe? The boy's eyes widened. What was it that Snape had said this morning? "Recipe?" he tried, to no avail. As loud as he could, he stated, "Recipe! Recipe—_respect!"_

Still, the vines wrapped over every inch of him. Kaltag thought fast, trying to remember this morning. He'd got up, found cats all over him, went downstairs, found Snape with a visitor, got interrogated, and Snape had said something. Three or four words that he couldn't, for the life or impending _death_ of him, recall.

"Respect? Er ... respect, allspice, prospectus? No, that's not it. Respite, advice—no! Respond, recall, reply, repeat, repertoire—oh, whatever! _SNAPE!_ If you don't get out here _now_, so help me—_SNAPE!_"

The thin vines round his neck suddenly slid farther up his chin, looped around his face and gagged his mouth. Spitefully, Kaltagonus bit down, breaking through a few, but they were quickly replaced, and this lot moved with fury. He'd barely blinked and the twine was over his nose, plugging his nostrils. Then over his eyes, forcing him to see nothing but green darkness and he panicked, feeling the cold wrist cuff warm slowly, his heart throbbing in his chest, pounding out its last beats and his world was going dark....

_"Respice, adspice, prospice!"_

And suddenly, the nasty vines disappeared. Kaltagonus sucked in a lungful of air as he met the dusty earth a few meters below. He coughed and spat at and hugged the ground, catching his breath as a pair of polished black boots leveled with his eyes. Grudgingly, he was filled with gratitude; he'd never thought he'd see the day when he was happy to see Snape. Well, he _wouldn't_ have seen the day had Snape come a moment later. Swallowing another dusty mouthful of air, the red-haired youth clambered to his hands and knees before unsteadily getting to his feet. When he saw Snape's waspish look, his reluctant appreciation happily fell flat on the floor.

"You forgot the password," Snape welcomed with a scowl.

"You didn't tell me that that's what it was," he panted, ripping a dead coil of rope off his arm and lobbing it aside. "Didn't tell me that without the password your stupid plant would come down and try to _kill_ me."

"It would not have harmed you had you remembered."

Kaltagonus frowned. "Excuse me, but do I live here?" A harsh silence followed during which Snape's anger seemed to swell. "I thought so." Yanking one final vine from round his neck, the young man swore loudly and made for the door.

"Excuse me—"

"Shove off, will ya?"

He wrenched around when Snape seized his elbow. After reclaiming his arm and barking, "Don't _touch_ me!" he trod heavily into the villa, ignoring the dull ache in his foot. The professor followed, slamming the door and trailing him up the short flight of stairs. He had barely made it into the corridor when Snape grabbed his shoulder and made to spin him around again. When his mark burned and the cuff sizzled in disapproval on his wrist, Kaltagonus had had it. But poised to blow up, mouth contorting around the first swear, he stopped. Something was off. Worse and more astonishing yet, _Snape_ was off.

Snape looked slightly more distressed than livid. Elsewhere was a better word; there was a crease in the midst of his eyebrows, aging him several years and adding shadows to his face that he couldn't remember seeing before. Guardedly, Kaltagonus took it as a sign to tread carefully. It seemed like the wrong word or the slightest misstep would send the professor over the deep end.

Luckily, Snape cast the first stone by snapping, "Where were you?"

Kaltagonus frowned. "I told you this morning: my _kouros."_

"All day?"

He met Snape's gaze levelly. It wasn't like him to be so absentminded. At his raised eyebrow, Snape seemed to notice his blunder. Pursing his lips, the professor jerked his fistful of shirt and began to tow him back towards the foyer.

"Hey!"

"Never mind. You need to leave."

"What?"

"The sooner the better."

Kaltagonus pulled back and knocked Snape's iron grip away. _"What?"_

"I've no time for games, boy!" snarled Snape, a wild expression on his face. "I need you to leave _now_."

"Uh, no, I don't think so. I've just spent the entire morning being poked, prodded, gawked up and down while _naked_ and damn near _molested_ by a lecherous old man," he growled, nose to nose with the scowling Potions Master. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and you conveniently forgot to mention your bloody plants _attack_ if I don't say the password. There is nothing — _nothing_ you can possibly say right now that would send me off in the opposite direction."

Snape's unsmiling face never wavered. "My father's coming to dinner."

Kaltag paused, staring.

"You got a back door somewhere in this place where I can just—?"

"Take the stairs down, straight on and you're there. Quickly." Snape hastened him toward the stairway with a hand on his arm. He was poised to slap it off again when there suddenly came a sharp, impatient _tap-tap-tap-tap_ on the doorknocker.

They froze. He chanced a look at Snape, who continued to stare at the door, eyes larger than usual. When another _rap-tap-tap-tap-tap_ sounded, Snape's face veered in his direction.

"Uh-oh," the youth teased. "Daddy's home."

Glaring, Snape grabbed him by the shirt scruff and quickly strode them back down the hall. As another impetuous rap sounded at the door, Kaltagonus caught a glimpse of Stout slowly toddling up the stairs and to the entrance before he was shoved through a set of double doors. It was a wide, sparely furnished room with just a sofa, rug, and side tables. It had a large opening leading to the dining room on his left, which in turn led to the breakfast nook or the stairwell for upstairs. He hadn't done much exploring, really; he didn't have the heart to snoop around, not with Snape waiting in the shadows to pounce.

As the doors quietly clicked closed, he spun around, eyeing the sallow professor closely. He had his hands on the knobs and his back to the door, and was breathing quite heavily. But upon meeting his gape, Snape put on his best sneer, straightened his waistcoat, and whipped around so fast his curtain of dark hair smacked audibly against the door. Slowly, he opened it a crack, peering out into the hall. Rolling his eyes, Kaltagonus followed suit, falling to his knees and watching the proceedings from waist level.

"Tell me again why we're hiding from him?"

"We are _not_ hiding."

He rolled his eyes and speared him with an exasperated look. "So what do you call this?"

Snape's chin stiffened. "Reconnoitering."

"You've got to be kidding me—"

_"Be quiet."_

He obeyed just as he heard the front door creak open after a final round of hard, incessant knocking. My God; he hadn't even met the man and he was already frightened. And he didn't care what fancy name Snape called it: they were _hiding_.

The sound of shoes tocking across the floorboards and scuffing to a stop reached his ears, followed by the door's slam. He thought he felt Snape flinch.

"Well?" an arch voice growled. "Don't just stand there, you silly creature! Announce me."

The redhead rolled his eyes up at the Potions Master. "Fantastic," he whispered. "Daddy's as charming as you are."

He glowered as Snape nudged him with a knee hissing, "Quiet." He opened the door a bit wider.

From his view on the floor, Kaltag couldn't see much. But Snape's father, for that was only who he could be given his gruff comportment, gave him a bad feeling. Not just because who his son happened to be, but everything about this man spoke volumes on his conceit. The way he carried himself, even with his back to them: back straight, clothes of a posh sort, walking stick polished to shine, and even the sharp jangle of jewelry as he grumbled quietly to himself. As he paced out of sight, an aggravated grunt was heard, followed by the ping of metal striking wood. This man was impatience personified in the worst way.

"_That's_ your father?" he murmured.

"Yes." There was a dubious note in Snape's tone.

"Hmph. No wonder you turned into such a sod—"

"Maestro?"

Kaltagonus startled and leapt to his feet. The croaky voice had been so close. With a hand clapped to his thudding chest, he glowered to the house-elf standing at Snape's heels. Stout's mistrustful eyes darted in his direction, then back at the professor. Exploiting that infernal calm in crises he always seemed to have at hand, Snape slowly turned around to face the expectant servant.

"Stout?"

"Master Snape arrives for dinner."

"Wonderful," muttered the teenager. "Shall I pop into the kitchen to make tea and cucumber sandwiches?"

Stout threw him a wary look as Snape glared blackly. "Does Maestro want Stout to set table for two?"

Snape looked as if someone had just told him Medusa was prancing up and down his study in a wedding gown awaiting his marriage proposal. He could see the cogs grinding in the man's eyes even as he stood silent, directing his stone gaze down at his hefty house-elf. Stout hopped from foot to foot, as anxious as Kaltagonus felt. What did Snape have to think about? _Yes_: that was all he needed to say. Yes, set the table for two and the boy will remain hidden upstairs. This was an open and shut decision, so why hadn't he closed on it yet?

"Snape." He looked away upon having the full weight of the man's gaze thrown in his direction. "You can't seriously be..." He swallowed, shifting his eyes on anything but that piercing look. "I mean, you just tried to throw me out. You're not considering—"

"Considering what?" he sniped, a scowl pulling at his lips.

"I—I don't.... You can still distract him and I'll go out back or the front or—or—or out a window." He stammered to a halt, peering down at the angry purpling strokes on his hands and arms.

Snape simply favored him with a cool expression before facing his elf. "Table for three, Stout." Kaltagonus felt his heart give a strong flop of disapproval. Snape must've really been toeing the edge of sanity to invite him to dinner.

"And you," he continued, rounding on him with a dark look, "bathe, dress nicely, and do not—_do not_ speak unless spoken to. Even then, use common sense and caution. _I_ talk, _you_ shut up."

"But—but I can be quiet in my—the room, and—"

He hissed as Snape's fingers tightened around his arm. The mark flared on his back and the cuff burned in notice.

The scowling man dragged him close, bared teeth inches from his face and hot breath stinging his eyes. "This is not up for discussion."

With that, he was shunted in the direction of the dining room archway. He stumbled and caught himself on the wall, but quickly spun around to lance Snape with a death glare. But he found himself alone. The door to the sitting room snapped shut quietly and Stout was nowhere to be seen.

The nearby stamp of boots on wood drew his attention for a moment as he stood, clutching the wall, listening. From the other entry to the dining room he could just hear Stout grumbling an introduction of Snape's father and a clipped response. Snape. From which one, he wasn't quite sure any more. That in itself made his stomach twist up in anxiety. Taking a fortifying breath, he crept around the dining table and through the breakfast nook entrance, pausing behind the half partition before darting up the stairs.

Once on the landing, he raced down the hall, nearly knocked into the side table and relaxed only when he was safely behind the bedroom door. Safe, he snorted to himself. What a laugh. There was no such thing as safe with two Snapes under one roof.

oooooooooo

**A/N**: Thanks for reading! Chapter 7 should be up within a few days.


	7. 7: Hubris, Pt III

**The Best Intentions**

**Disclaimer:** I **do not** hold any claim to the _Harry Potter_ franchise, nor am I profiting from this.

_Am I? – Inward thoughts._

**_Kill it._**_ – Golradir thought-speech._

**Seven****:** Hubris, Part III

After peeling the tattered shirt off of him and quickly inspecting the marks from Snape's murderous foliage, Kaltagonus once again cursed the dark man and rushed through a clean up. He brushed the rest of the leaves from his hair and, ignoring his stiff muscles' protests, threw on some cleaner clothing. Argentum had not yet returned from hunting; his only critic came in the form of Massimo lazing on the chair. If Marta was around, she was nowhere to be seen.

Looping his belt through the buckle at last, he peered at the cupboard mirror with a critical eye. Despite the warm shower, he was still wan and weary. In fact, the blossoming bruises around his neck and jaw made him look far worse. And with the dark color of his shirt, he was sure he would be mistaken for a walking corpse.

"Could be better," he muttered. Massimo mewled in agreement. He sneered. "Who asked you?"

The woolly cat leapt off the chair and vanished through the crack under the door. Frowning, Kaltagonus took a passing glance in the mirror and swung the door shut. The longer he looked at himself, the more cross he became with his life.

Two weeks ago he'd have laughed it off if someone told him he'd be reduced to this. Isolated from all but his thoughts, the strange dreams that gave him an uncomfortable twinge in his belly; the chilling voice in his ear sometimes. And living with Snape. _Two_ Snapes. God, he would've been in tears, roaring with laughter then. But now, _living_ it, not knowing who he was, or worse, _what_ he was....

A rustle in the cupboard broke him from his gloomy musings. With narrowed eyes, he paused, waiting for it to sound again, but nothing happened. Must've slammed it so hard some things fell down. He shrugged, slipped the Ravenstone pendant back around his neck and whispered _"Evincio"_ as he waved his wand. The cool numbness seized him once again, washing away the stirs of a cold voice he was both familiar and troublingly unfamiliar with. But none of that bothered him now; all his thoughts slipped away with the oily consistency of a bezoar. He slid his wand in his pocket and left the room. Daddy Dearest would be waiting.

He couldn't hear much conversation as he eased down the corridor toward the room where the brash voice of Snape's father intermittently rose. It agitated him, more so that he reacted in that way than the tone itself. Intimidation _must_ run in the Snape family genes for him to be so cowed by a man he'd not yet met. Like father, like son indeed.

Kaltagonus sidled toward the sitting room and stood a ways by the entrance watching the family exchange. Snape was sitting on the sofa, back straight and hands folded in his lap. He looked hostile, Kaltag noted, but it could've just been his imagination. The fixed expression on his face gave nothing away.

Across the room on an armchair sat their guest. His bearing was elegant, his clothing tasteful, and his wealth was quietly implied by the salient pocket watch dangling from his waistcoat pocket. A dark hat, still in good condition but noticeably worn was clutched in his pallid hands, and his polished black and silver cane sat at his right. Unremarkable gray hair was threaded liberally with white, silver whiskers reminiscent of Franz Josef, and his fair handsome face was creased by time. Everything about him was pointy, from his cane, to his neat boots, to the clipped edges of his beard and finally, the large pointed nose on his face. Good God: that must mean Snape got the beak from his dear old mum, who was plainly absent.

Everything about Father Snape breathed superiority, self-importance and blood power. Even snapping the ornate cover of his pocket watch open to read the clock face was done with pomp, circumstance, and a shade of contempt.

"It's been awfully long," he hissed, shutting his watch with an abrupt noise. His tone, whether it was conscious or not, was a soft, biting growl. The words, though mundane, speared through him like ice.

"Sixteen years."

There was an apprehensive pause, followed by Snape's father placidly saying, "I was not referring to the past."

To which Snape neutrally replied, "I know."

Silence reigned for a short while before someone spoke again. "I noticed your mother's painting is missing. I thought she might be here. She's never visited."

"And there's some question as to why that is?"

The surly disbelief in Snape's tone was the moment Kaltagonus chose to make his presence known, drawing straight-backed attention from both men. The father's browbeaten face registered slight shock before annoyance and suspicion stole over his countenance. "Thank you for taking your time to join us."

He burned to say something irreverent, but the warning look on Snape's face kept his mouth shut.

"Sorel, this is ... my apprentice."

He hurriedly eyed the professor and caught his furtive nod. _Wonderful_. Looked like he'd be spending the night digging a hole for himself. Although a sensible reason as to why Snape wanted to lie eluded him.

Snape nodded toward their guest. "This is Sorel Snape. My father." There was a beat between the last two words that didn't go unnoticed by Kaltag. Nor, for that matter, did it escape Sorel's attention. So the hostility wasn't something he'd imagined. An evening with two unreceptive Snapes. And to think he wanted to escape this madhouse earlier....

Sighing, he trudged across darkened room and extended a welcoming hand to Sorel. "Pleasure to meet you."

Sorel didn't move. The displeased frown on his face when he'd heard the word 'apprentice' was still evident.

"Indeed. And you are?"

"Uh..." He cast a sidelong glance at Snape. "Kal—"

"Lucien."

Something inside him shifted when Snape uttered that name. But he couldn't describe it, or didn't want to know.

Sorel narrowed his eyes at them both in turn. "Which is it, boy?"

Kaltag tried not to add to Father Snape's paranoia by seeking the professor's approval. Instead he said, "Kelton. Lucien Kelton. Sorry, I go by my surname a lot." He realized he still had his hand outstretched. Sorel did not, and probably would not, budge. Friendly grin waning, he pulled back and took the seat beside Snape. They didn't look at one another. "I usually—I just offer it up to cut out the middle man, heh. Kelton. Lucien Kelton, that's me. Of the Scottish Keltons of ... Scotland." Snape scoffed so quietly he was sure Sorel missed it.

"Really?" He nodded. Sorel's brow lowered. "You don't sound Scottish."

Beside him, Snape's folded fingers tightened. "Well, that's because my family left Scotland. People _do_ move."

"Indeed."

"Mm," he mocked, smirking.

Sorel's piercing gaze lingered on him a while longer. He sat back a little, setting the hat on his knee and gripping his cane as if readying to strike him. "Apprentice, you say?" Snape nodded. "For how long?"

"For as long as it takes," said Kaltag, stubbornly returning his frosty look. He had no idea what he was doing, being so aggressive with Snape Senior, especially when he couldn't even stomach Snape Junior.

"And you are a student of Severus'?"

He couldn't resist throwing Snape a sideways glance. The professor remained stolid. "You could say that. He's practically like a godfather to me."

Snape did turn to glare at him this time, with admonishing, flinty eyes. _Hey, _you _started this, _he inwardly griped. He tried to tell him this was a bad idea but _of course_ Snape thought _he_ knew better. Whatever bad thing came of this tonight was entirely on him, Kaltagonus inwardly snarled. He would certainly see to reminding him of it as often as possible.

Sorel's snort broke through his thoughts. "Is he, now? Living here, eating his food, taking his money, his generosity and time? It's a wonder why you'd feel that way."

Snape kept such a watchful eye on him he didn't think he'd be allowed to come back with a retort.

"Did they force you to take him in?" he directed at Snape. "It's not right. I ought to have a few words with old Dominic Callaghan. He still works for the apprenticeship organization. I'll be sure to schedule an appointment with him this week. Absurd. I-It's just not right for them to put him off on you like this."

Whether he kept his word or not, Kaltagonus knew Sorel wasn't making an empty threat. Had there been a fireplace in the room, he was sure he would've made the firecall in an instant. He vaguely wondered if Snape would do anything to thwart this; Sorel seemed like the type to actually make good on his word, even if he was bluffing.

"I didn't think Severus had the patience to be a father, let alone a guide for an apprentice," he pompously continued. Kaltag had nothing to say to that; it was practically fact. Snape neither agreed nor disagreed, staying silent. He briefly considered how many wallops to his character it would take before the professor exploded. Hadn't taken long on their first night; maybe his fuse was even shorter in the presence of someone he seemed to detest more than him.

An unpleasant look crossed Sorel's face. "Ah! On further news of utter ridiculousness, I ran into Angus the other day—Edgar Avery's boy, you remember? He was acting rather funny." Snape gave no indication he had the slightest regard for any of them. "I was, uh, talking with Edgar over tea at his home—speaking of which, when will dinner be served?"

"Soon enough." Snape must have been in the running for the honor of most inhospitable host. Or perhaps there was something far darker going on between father and son that they couldn't—or wouldn't—talk about in front of him. At any rate, Kaltagonus was happy to be out of the blaze of Sorel's and Snape's unfavorable spotlights.

"Yes, well, perhaps I should send Tipsy along to see what's keeping your servant?"

"Stout. His name is Stout, same as it's ever been."

Sorel briskly nodded. Kaltagonus, however, doubted he'd remember. "Of course. Tipsy? Tipsy!" He struck the foot of his cane several times against the floor.

Arching an eyebrow, Kaltagonus peered over at Snape and mouthed, _"Tipsy?"_ But Snape stayed straight-faced, black eyes darting icily between his father and the dimming horizon beyond the windows.

A loud snort sounded from one of the plants, tearing Kaltag's gaze off the Potions Master. None of the elder wizards found this surprising; only Sorel grunted in annoyance, repeatedly cracking his stick on the floorboards. "_Tipsy_. Come _on_, you useless lump of ... I've half a mind to give you clothes."

"Then why haven't you?"

"Ah, well, he provides a source of ... entertainment for your grandmother." His brown eyes glimmered with a blend of condemnation, mild amusement, and repugnance.

Kaltagonus heard the telltale scrape of glass on wood, and raised his eyebrows as a small hand clutching the neck of a large bottle came into sight. It was followed by a walleyed, drowsy house-elf emerging around the vacant armchair. Even creeping on its knees it was wobbly; the creature dragged itself to its feet on rubber legs, using the empty bottle as an anchor. Glazed yellow eyes swirled around in its head and it slowly ogled each of them in turn, gripping the bottle as if it would slide to the floor in a dead faint at any moment.

The house-elf lowered its head quickly in a reverent bow that brought its temple perilously close to smashing the set of Gobstones on the table.

"Mast—_hic!_ Master Snape calls for Tips—_hic!_ Tips—_hic!_ Tipsy?"

Kaltag gaped. Beside him, Snape grunted disdainfully.

Sorel's eyes carried over them before lancing the sloshed servant with a glower. "Make yourself useful," he ordered in a clipped tone, "in the kitchen."

"Master." Tipsy's watery smile and hiccupped response spurred him into a totter across the room. He zigzagged as far as the entry, bottle wrapped tightly in his arms like a child clasping a favorite toy, before falling flat on his face, dead drunk. The bottle shattered, seeping what appeared to be backwash.

Sorel sighed and cradled his forehead, visibly irate. Kaltag's attempt to stifle his laughter failed. But his snicker was eclipsed by the massive snore rumbling from the elf, like an old jet engine thundering to life. When his snuffling roars finally lessened to a tolerable level, Sorel, still sour-faced, resumed the conversation.

"As I was ... saying," he purred with self-importance, "I ran into Avery."

"Noted."

"He was inquiring about some curious business."

Kaltagonus caught the fleeting look Snape threw in his direction before saying, "This is hardly the time to discuss—"

"It's rather silly. I had quite a laugh over it. Your grandmother, however, didn't find it amusing in the least."

Kaltag was starting to think nothing ever amused the Snape family. Except maybe the pickled heap of elf on the area rug.

"He was asking me questions about your godson, Severus. Well, I told him—I said you didn't have one, but he kept after me, insisting that you'd mentioned him, but he seemed to be in quite a laughable predicament," continued Sorel, his sturdy frame shaking with his chuckles. "It's not true, I said. My son would never..." And he broke into a cackle rich with amusement.

Kaltagonus and Snape shared identical flat expressions, waiting for him to settle down.

"Poor lad. Must have been sniffing round his father's private stores again, ha."

Only when he noticed that neither he nor Snape shared his amusement did the elder Snape's grin falter. "It's not true. This is outrageous."

Snape's latticed fingers tightened in his lap. "Do I look amused?"

Sorel's face curdled. "Here, now! I didn't give you permission to godfather a child!"

"I neither sired anyone nor do I need your permission to be a godfather."

"Not like he _has_ been," muttered Kaltag. Snape's eyes narrowed, but he otherwise remained focused on his father.

The explosion that seemed to be dangling just out of reach finally ignited. Sorel crushed his hat into a wad as he spluttered, face coloring and cane slicing through the air. "_You?_ _You're_ the godson?"

"Took you long enough."

"Of all the.... This is—this is madness! It's—scandal! You cannot be a godfather, Severus. Especially not to _him._ I forbid it!"

"You are in no position to give me orders, Sorel."

"You pass our family's legacy off to some unworthy, unsafe lout—"

"Hello!" Kaltagonus sang, brow creased in exasperation. "Still in the room, grandpa. You keep this up and _someone's_ not getting any ugly ties from _me_ come Father's Day."

He was suddenly staring down the length of a worn cane pointed at his nose. Kaltag didn't doubt Sorel's wand must've resided there. "You stay your tongue, you—you ... slimy leech!"

"Now, I resent that," he snarled, leaning forward in his seat. "I'll have you know I just bathed. For you, no less."

"And I'll have _you_ know, whelp," Sorel emphasized by jabbing his cane sharply in the air, "that filth washed is still filth."

He bit back a wince as a piercing twinge spiked in his chest. The mark on his back seared so fiercely he almost heard it sizzle. It lasted all of a second, because the hidden wrist cuff sent an answering vibration up his arm and down his spine, cutting it off mid flare. But Kaltagonus still seethed. He suddenly thought he knew why Snape had been so desperate to get him out earlier: to spare him from his father's ruthlessness.

If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought Snape cared. But he did know better, and knew that that was just rubbish. After all, Snape was the one who'd forced him to be here. He half wished the cuff hadn't responded so quickly. Any other time it would have scared him, but Sorel was just asking for it....

"That's enough." They both faced Snape, watching the heated exchange quietly for several moments before batting the stick aside. Sorel, chest heaving with breath, didn't fight him. Kaltag lanced him with a fierce scowl. "I've stomached your petulance for too long. Kelton, stay out of this and you," he rounded on the gray-haired wizard, "don't have a say in what choices I make. Not any more."

The elder Snape coughed into his hand before producing a handkerchief from his pocket. As classy as he seemed to present himself, his clean-shaven lower jaw shone with spit in the candlelight. He dabbed around his mouth.

"You may not want my advice, son, but you know my words are true."

"As true as bullshit can be."

_"Kelton."_

Sorel eyed him with aversion, then focused on Snape. "Your standing in society has suffered greatly from idle talk, but this? A _godfather_? What do you have against us, Severus? Against me? There's nothing noble about being a godfather."

Snape's expression darkened so finely had the boy blinked he would have missed it. "I do not have to justify my actions to you or anyone else any longer."

"Be that as it may, we can still salvage this. We can ignore your blood status and those unfounded convictions from your past, but the simple reality of your being a teacher?" Sorel scoffed. "Hardly a worthy profession. No doubt your mother's influence. It's lowly work, wretched. Even now it baffles me why she devoted her time between her books and her garden and that classroom."

"Because none of them included you."

As Tipsy groggily snorted from the rug, Kaltagonus realized this was the first real anger he'd seen from Snape all evening. Nostrils wide, brow set in stone, and fingers all but digging holes in his thighs. So the mention of the absent Mrs. Snape was a raw subject. He was dying to ask, but knew Snape would thwart him if he'd even shown the slightest trace of curiosity.

The thick silence stood for a span of time. Sorel was mopping his face again and alternately glaring at his son and Kaltag. Despite Snape's dark retort, it appeared he hadn't felt the import of the professor's words at all. "At any rate," he quietly began, causing Kaltag to roll his eyes, "I don't know what we'll do with you. Your grandmother wanted to see you married already. Thought she'd have a great-grandchild from you by now, and a great-great grandchild sometime in the next few years."

"Do offer my apologies for not keeping on schedule," hissed Snape, "and remind her she already has one great-grandchild and other grandchildren to beleaguer with her demands."

"Yes, but _you_ are her first grandson."

"Her first _legal_ grandson," corrected Snape.

Kaltag's eyes danced between their stony faces, bright with interest. He decided to risk it. "You've got brothers and sisters?" he asked Snape.

"Mind your own—"

"Yes." He inwardly reeled when Snape's cold voice cut across his father's. Dark eyes studied him with quiet intensity, gauging him for deception. After a few seconds, they softened. Just a mite. Kaltagonus eagerly tipped forward. "Three brothers, two sisters."

"Actually, three," Sorel's low voice interrupted.

Snape's eyes held a brief flash of censure before he continued, an icy smile stretching across his face, "You see, my prying little apprentice, I have several ... for lack of a more unique term, siblings. Annette, no older than you; brothers Cuthbert and Bartholomew, younger and older than me respectively; another sister in France, Faline, born the same year as I."

"All with different women?" Snape looked at him dryly. The young Being frowned at Snape Senior. "Didn't waste any time at all, did you?"

"This last sister I have neither met nor knew of her existence. We all share the same philandering sire; their mothers are various ... _acquaintances_ he has collected over the years."

Sorel huffed in rebellion. "Collected! Come now, Severus: you make me sound as if I'm amassing a set of coins."

"Right; I shouldn't insult the collector. At least he values what he has and covets what he cannot get," scorned Snape. "You discard your treasures as soon as you've spoiled them, so there truly is no word to describe you."

Before Sorel got the chance to explode, Kaltagonus pointed out, "Three brothers? I—you mentioned two." Sorel shifted and Snape's jaw noticeably tightened. There was definitely a story there, especially if he'd left the third out on purpose. "What, you fighting with him? He pinch your girlfriend or something?"

Snape's eyes flicked to his father, his gaze hard; chastising. "Stillborn."

"Oh." Well, didn't he feel like a right arse? "Sorry."

A sharp _clink_ disturbed the heavy silence that followed. Sorel had flipped open his pocket watch and was studying it intently. Kaltagonus couldn't tell what he was feeling, if anything at all. Even Snape was void of emotion. Sore subject number two, apparently.

Snapping closed the watch's lid, he carried on, "She wants to see you marry, your grandmother, but I've told her you're well past the proper age for marriage and starting a family."

"He's not that old." Two pairs of eyes landed sharply on him. Suddenly conscious of the varying looks of dislike and skepticism, the boy quietly plucked at the splintered skin of his scraped fingers. "Sorry, sir, but I don't think you are."

Snape cleared his throat. "Noted."

Sorel cut eyes at him and brandished his cane. "You stay out of this."

He scowled. "I will if you will."

"This is family business!"

"And I'm starting to see you hardly qualify, Sorley."

_"__Sorel__."_

"Whatever."

With a cry of fury, Sorel leapt off his chair, madly shaking his cane. "Disrespectful little ... I ought to—"

A rather loud _crack_ echoed throughout the area drawing all of their attention toward the entrance. There Stout patiently stood, warty face screwed up in slight interest and hands crossed before his grubby pillowcase. His expression at once folded into disgust upon seeing his napping fellow at his feet. Kaltag thought he might've thought up the revulsion curling Stout's lips.

"Stout finishes dinner, _Maestro_ Snape," he quietly announced, nodding down the corridor to the dining room at the end of the hall.

Sorel straightened, set his walking stick at his side, and neatly pulled on the hem of his waistcoat. He cleared his throat importantly after arranging himself, and peered coolly at Snape as he stood. Kaltag quickly followed suit.

"Shall we adjourn to the dining room?" growled Snape.

Sorel's nod was terse. Without awaiting another word he tread across the room, pausing only to demand down at the house-elf, "Clean this mess up," before disappearing around the corner. Stout hesitated, eyeing Snape with puzzlement.

Snape's nod was identical to his father's and just as incensed. "Do as he says." He waited for the house-elf to favor him with a bow and strode after Sorel. Only Kaltagonus looked back after tailing them, catching sight of the elf as he rolled the snoring Tipsy under the sofa.

He was the last to plod into the dining room and could almost feel the tension thicken. And he knew why: the seat at the head of the table, which since his first night in Capri he knew belonged to Snape, was now filled with Sorel's sturdy form. Snape sat at the opposite end, the slightly smaller chair, a frown darkening his face. Kaltagonus inwardly cursed; the last thing he wanted was to be between father and son. However, it seemed they left him no choice. He was really starting to hate everyone making decisions for him.

Both wizards tracked him with penetrating stares as he quietly took his seat. Once he'd settled himself comfortably—or as comfortably as one could be with two bitter wizards sizing him up—the food popped into existence. He languidly mimicked them as they routinely spread their napkins across their laps and abruptly tucked in. Only he paused, staring at his own meal with uncertainty.

He tentatively swirled his spoon in the contents of his bowl. The soupy risotto sloshed on the sides, swimming around. Bloated pieces of chicken bobbed into view like deep sea divers surfacing after a long plunge underwater. They looked burnt, as if Stout had scraped the charred remains from the floor of the pan especially for him. Making a face, he eyed Snape and his father in turn.

Either their food was fine or they were still too hot to care for a crap meal. The lazy coils of steam clouding over their plates told a different story. And when their utensils emerged, their food wasn't slop that spilled or leaked through fork tines. He scowled. Stupid fat elf.

Still, Kaltagonus scooped a soggy spoonful, pressed the dollop to the side of the bowl and tried to drain it. He bravely swallowed a portion of the hard carnaroli rice and immediately stifled a grimace. The sound must have carried down the table, for he was soon leveled with steely gazes, both eerily similar with pointed annoyance. He weakly grinned in response, grabbing his glass and raising it in mock salute. A liberal swallow of water carried the hard lump of rice down, a stiff ball that certainly took its time to pass. Ah, just as well: since meeting Sorel, he'd already lost his appetite.

The oppressive silence remained through to pudding. It was some dark mass Stout had cooked up—probably cat and owl droppings for him, he mused. Neither Snape tried to strike up conversation, for which he was both appreciative and uneasy. On the one hand, he didn't think he could contain himself around Sorel's mouth (and not with knives so close by). On the other, the silence seemed to get heavier with each scrape of steel on china.

He'd undone the top buttons of his shirt it was so stifling. Eating with the silent professor was one thing; at least he knew where they stood, knew how far he could push the boundaries. And when all was said and done, the bitterness was still fresh and they'd have all summer to fray each others' nerves.

But this Snape feud was darker, years in the making, it seemed. And somehow he knew every word said tonight was another wound opening, another lash, another hole gutted into their hearts. If Snapes even _had_ hearts.

In all honesty, it felt like a gathering storm, like both Snapes were gearing up for an even bigger row to come. And for the first time that evening, Kaltagonus wasn't sure whether he wanted to be around for that or not. Given the choice, he'd take the silence over a potentially apocalyptic squabble any day.

"How was your meal?" asked Snape of Sorel as he finished his last bite. The elder wizard's answer escaped the ginger-haired boy, who'd taken to dicing his dessert into clumpy cubes. Some of them bled claret. "Kelton?"

It took him a moment to realize Snape was talking to him, but he raised his head, surprised. Well. This was unprecedented. Before tonight, Snape wouldn't have shown him the slightest regard if he'd gone cyanotic at the table. Probably making nice for their guest, he sullenly thought.

He shrugged a shoulder. "It was more soup than dinner, sir, but, ah ... all—all right, I guess." He brought a forkful of the mess on his plate to his mouth and swallowed, cringing. "Mm." Definitely cat shit. "Yours?"

The Potions Master fixed him with a stern look, once again measuring his sincerity. And again, he found no ill will. He answered with a half-hearted, "Fine," sipped his brandy and let the din of cutlery fall back over the room.

From his place at the head of the table, Sorel studied them with narrowed eyes behind his glass. Years of working with businessmen and women in their primes and their pits had provided the young Being with the gift for reading faces. But nothing was easier to read than a legless executive at a dinner. It was Spiridon's polite way of initiating a hostile takeover: plug them with spirits and announce plans for acquisition before pudding—politely, but it was still cold-blooded.

So to him, Sorel was quite an open book. Eyes in slits, lips pursed, fingers clutching his half-empty glass of grappa as if unsure whether to break it or show mercy. He was suspicious, very suspicious. Clearly not pleased with what he was seeing between them.

For the life of him, Kaltagonus hadn't a clue as to why. And that bothered him most of all.

ooooo

The second assembly in the sitting room saw a much more casual Sorel, tongue and tenseness loosed by the amount of brandy he'd put away at dinner. Kaltagonus couldn't believe the same man, who earlier prided himself on appearance and decorum, had let himself go so easily. Perhaps it was due to the stress of facing Snape, who hadn't made things any less painful with his tart answers and reticent demeanor.

But good things came from this unbelievable situation: for one, the elder Snape seemed content to ignore his existence. Every rude barb he'd spewed went over his very intoxicated head. They didn't escape Snape, however, who was stubbornly clear-headed after nursing one drink all evening.

Secondly, with Sorel's lips loosened and his readiness to bring up old memories, he'd learned a great deal about Snape's background. And whatever he needed explained, Snape unexpectedly clarified, staring at Sorel's puce countenance with dark amusement. He didn't understand why the severe wizard would divulge so many secrets when he'd made it quite plain there was no trust between them. Kaltagonus swept that thought away with an eye-roll and chocked it up to appearances. Sorel had to see this apprenticeship wasn't a sham, otherwise there would be an inquiry in the future. And given the state of things between them—the disloyalty, the dislike, the fickle guardianship—that wasn't an option.

One of the first stories described the number of scandals that shadowed the professor's maternal family. How the former Italian Premier of Magic had had an affair with his sister-in-law; how he and his wife raised the child borne of that liaison. Then somehow the sister vanished right after she'd given birth to Snape's mother, leaving no clue or trace as to where she might have gone. Her parents said nothing, and even her only sister remained tight-lipped. The gossip mounted for months, from post-labor death to disownment to sororicide. Sorel was quite positive it had been the latter; Snape merely pursed his lips, a cloud of impatience dimming his features. Seemed he knew the real story, but surrendered the floor to his father's drink-addled imagination.

Sorel had even spoken freely about his personal life: his marriage, like both Snape's grandparents', had been arranged. And then he proceeded to describe, in painstaking detail, the flood of arousal that shot through him as soon as he'd spotted the lovely Elena Ignazio at a society function.

Gaping in horror, Kaltag quickly sat up. He spun around to Snape, urgently pleading, "May I be excused?"

"No," Snape spat. His surly expression said it all: I_ suffer, _you_ suffer_. Kaltagonus groaned, flopped over the armrest and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. He could practically feel the sick whip round in his stomach.

Snape drained his glass and heavily sat it on the table. From the looks of the magically refilled glass, Kaltagonus thought perhaps the porky house-elf had been eavesdropping. His, on the other hand, remained staunchly empty. He thoroughly wished he'd had something quite as strong as their drinks to drown out Sorel's horrifically explicit account. From the distressed look on the professor's face, he thought the man might've desired something far stronger, too.

The stories mercifully veered from this side of crass to a bitter, personal turn. Sorel detailed how livid he'd been to learn of Elena's deception. Rather, deceptions. Apparently, the Ignazios failed to mention her aunt-cum-stepmother had come from an aristocratic _Muggle_ family from Bulgaria. Strike one, and a dangerous one for Sorel, who prided blood purity above all. Strike two had come when he found out, the hard way, that Elena was hearing impaired, but a keen lip-reader. Kaltagonus suddenly remembered the scene from this morning with Snape and his guest; they'd been signing. The mere discovery of this juicy tidbit threw him for a loop. Snape _signed?_

A shadow of rage consumed Sorel's expression; the hand clutching his glass shook. "Damaged goods," he muttered after glugging a mouthful of drink. "They sold me damaged goods with dirty blood. Wanted to have them thrown in Azkaban for fraud, but your grandmother wouldn't let me have it. Deceived by a Durmstrang! I'd never been so humiliated in my life!

"We had to stay married; divorce in those times was a _Muggle_ practice, an indignity. No, I was stuck with—with ... _that_ until one of us went; I prayed for it to be her."

The young Celestial had watched as Snape's upper lip twitched when the elder wizard began his tirade. He, too, felt the furious heat coursing through him. He may not have liked Snape, but even he hadn't deserved to hear that about his mother.

Oblivious, the soused wizard continued as if he'd merely been commenting on the weather, unaware of the professor's mounting fury. His drink had magically topped off, too, and was sloshing against the walls of the glass as he flourished it throughout storytelling. Some spilled on the rug, the table, splashed the Gobstones; Snape said nothing.

Then he'd come to a recollection that pulled a hacking laugh from his throat: when Elena learned of his pregnant mistress and dueled him, seven months along with Snape.

"That, son," he stressed, "was the first time I'd seen her fire again since learning of her deception. There she was, I said. The woman I thought I'd married before all the lies and deafness and dirty blood. She was there with her ... her fire and vivacity. And then she fled to the old country, her Bulgaria, and I—well, I thought it was over.

"You were born soon after. I didn't see you until you were some months old ... named you after her father, but I put an end that nonsense. She insisted we keep some of her ... ahh, muddy heritage in you. _Luzio_," he scoffed, swilling the glass around and taking a healthy quaff. "Severino Luzio. Of all the incredible—no, no, I was merciful and named you Severus. Strong, strapping name. She didn't like it; didn't want to come back, but you were mine, and she was mine, and I always get what's mine...."

"Always?" Snape hissed the word with such vitriol Kaltag winced. Brow creasing, he cast the Potions Master an inquisitive glance, but Snape's closed off expression quelled any questions he'd had.

Sorel's white cheeks suffused pink with inebriation. But Kaltag knew this cool statement was more sobering than any hangover remedy. The elder wizard's dark eyes widened for a fraction before thinning disapprovingly. He sucked in a wet breath and smoothly transferred the brandy to his left hand. With the other, he brandished the broad end of his cane, but did not jab it towards the professor as he did Kaltagonus.

"_That_ was _not_ my fault," he stated through gritted teeth.

Kaltagonus watched closely as Snape straightened in his seat, his gaze conveying volatility but his face a calm, stony cover. "Still in denial? Pathetic."

"You still blame me for circumstances you were too young to understand!"

"I _blame_ you because you caused said circumstances like you caused everything else."

"_I_ caused?"

"Yes," snarled Snape. "_You_ caused. _You_ induced her early labor with your endless betrayals. _You_ drove her into a depression so dark she—"

Snape broke off abruptly. He might have flicked his black eyes in his direction, but Kaltag wasn't sure. Calmed, he evenly resumed, "As far as I'm concerned, you're to blame for her death as well as his."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Sorel scoffed and jerked himself back in his armchair, seemingly unaware of the liquor he spilled on his trousers as he did so. "You think your mother was so delicate, but resilient. The nicest witch ever forged by magic; her soul, spotless."

"Only a fool would believe that."

"Then you are the biggest one of all, Severus, because you knew _nothing_," Sorel jeered. "You knew nothing then, and know nothing now."

"I know the callousness of humans," countered Snape, "after spending half my life in your presence."

"So I made you?"

"You made all of us."

Sorel snarled. "And you still think Saint Elena was flawless?"

"Everyone is tarnished in their own way."

"Oh, _please_—"

"You've done your fair share of marking souls."

Sorel bent forward just a little bit, his mustached lip curling back to reveal stained teeth. "And who would know that better than you?"

Snape's lips tightened, turning white with anger. His nostrils flared and a rut tunneled between his eyebrows. Kaltagonus could see his longing to lash out, to explode. It was comparable to when he'd barely hold his tongue back in Potions after inspecting the colossal cock-ups they'd managed to brew. But Sorel was no student. No quarter could be given if he desired. And he knew, from Snape's expression alone, he was considering it.

He didn't know the whole story and what they'd been talking about; Snape held Sorel responsible for Elena and his brother's deaths, that much was evident. But exactly how deep a fissure was there between father and son? He knew it was present, quite obviously, deepened by disloyalty, dissent and hatred. With each passing spiteful word, he could almost see the cleft in their relationship broaden. Becoming an abyss.

Perhaps _that_ was the reason Spiridon had sent him here for the summer. To scare him into seeing what their future could be like: dredging up every past injustice over drinks. Blaming one another for their mistakes. Loathing without limits.

Surprisingly, it was as hard to witness as it was to consider the new evidence. Kaltag found he couldn't keep his eyes bouncing between them both and dropped them to one of the candles around the room. Even they quailed beneath the combined rage of father and son. Just when he thought the tension could have snapped under the weight of a feather, someone cleared their throat.

His eyes immediately darted to the entrance, searching for Stout, but he was absent. Sorel had set his brandy aside and was resting back in his seat as if the unpleasant exchange had been a distant event in a long forgotten memory. Once again, his fingers probed the pocket of his waistcoat and produced his watch. He cleared his throat.

"Tea?"

Snape remained quiet, though his eyes burned.

Sorel cleared his throat a second time. "Shall I call for your servant, or should we attempt to rouse mine?"

"I will fetch the tea service," whispered Snape. And as he rose with a rigid excuse, Kaltag jumped to his feet.

"I'll help."_ Because there is _no_ way you're leaving _me_ here with _him_,_ he mused. Snape's eyes flitted to him with a searching gleam. Then he eyed his father swiftly before striding from the room, Kaltag not far behind.

They marched downstairs wordlessly. Snape said nothing the entire trek, back stiff and hands balled in fists. Kaltag knew he was beyond upset. Here he was, in the forbidden part of the villa and Snape hadn't even mentioned it. But there wasn't much to see: closed doors, a sliver of a study, another sitting room, and more closed doors. Was this it? The big bombshell—Snape's ground floor was tediously normal?

When they got to the last set of doors on his right, Snape slung them open with such a force he jinked to avoid a head-on smack. He said nothing and followed, stopping at the island while Snape advanced to the counter along the wall. His bearing was still unapproachably stiff, warning him that any talk was unwelcome at the moment.

Upon hearing the commotion, Stout froze in place, the dinnerware balanced in his pudgy arms softly clattering. Mild shock and confusion lined his pudding-smudged face.

"Stout to serve the masters in kitchen?"

"No. Just bring out the tea service and get out," Snape sharply ordered.

Stout's dark eyes narrowed in his direction briefly before he nodded at Snape. He set the wares on a low counter and bowed, ducking into a door beside the fireplace. Apparently, the house-elf knew what to expect from this sort of behavior; he neither showed fear nor cowered in apprehension.

Kaltag divided his attention between the grumpy wizard and Stout, the latter noisily rummaging around the lower shelves of the pantry. He finally brought out a battered cauldron, coated with years of crust, and a similarly dull serving tray. Spoons and an infuser came next, along with a sugar and milk bowl. Mutely he set up the service, started the water, grabbed the clean plats and lumbered out of sight through the doors.

It was a span of long seconds after Stout left before Snape broke his rigid posture and crossed over to the fire. He mechanically flicked his wand to foster the flames and sought teacups and saucers, three pairs, all with his back to him. Kaltagonus was confident it was all done intentionally. Snape plainly wasn't in the mood to chat, and the message of his demeanor couldn't be any clearer: _back off_. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command, a rule Snape expected him to follow whether in school or on holiday.

But Kaltag didn't set much store by the rules.

"I was wondering why the cats stayed away," he gingerly began. "I _knew_ animals could sense evil."

Snape had produced a rag and was vigorously wiping the cups down. Under his brutal hand, he was lucky the cups were plain: Kaltag was confident if they'd been decked with a pattern, it would've surely rubbed off by now.

"So, uh ... back there. Is your father always this pleasant, or is tonight a special occasion?"

He thought he heard a suppressed snort. Good. He was making progress. "Listen, how far are we going with this apprentice story? Is that what we're going to tell everyone when this ... custody arrangement," he swallowed heavily, "falls through? Because if we're going to have more visitors—"

"We won't."

"Yes, but if we _do_, I suppose that's the story we'll be giving them?"

Snape didn't answer, too engrossed in trawling the cupboards. As he extricated a grimy vial of yellowish liquid among several nondescript bottles, Kaltag chose his next words carefully. Obviously Snape didn't share his flippant approach to the intense situation. He reckoned tact was essential if he wanted the best results.

"Hard, isn't it?" he murmured. The professor set the potion beside the tray on the countertop with a dull _clunk_. "Losing someone. Especially someone close."

"And you have?"

The response was so sharp, he shook, riled. "You know, I lost my mother, too—" he tersely began, but cut off. Snape froze.

Kaltag lowered his gaze to the floor, calm but uncertain. Snape must have been told everything; perhaps he wanted him to say it aloud—something even he couldn't muster the nerve to do—so he could torment him? Then again, he didn't want to lead himself down that route. Snape would say he brought it on himself; he definitely didn't want to arm him with spiteful fodder for the future.

He frowned, considering his next approach. He could challenge Snape and leave the room, knowing less about the father-son conflict. Or, at the expense of his dignity, he could be civil and bolster conversation. Snape had allowed Sorel to divulge all sorts of secrets earlier; if he hadn't wanted him to know, he would have stopped the sot ... wouldn't he?

"Not knowing who they could have become because of you, or you because of them," he reasoned, watching the wizard's wooden movements, "and you blame your father. I understand. I mean, it doesn't help things, but—"

A derisive snort cut his reasoning short. In a flash, he was facing Snape's dark visage with teeth bared, feeling the smart of his unkindness. "Suddenly you're an authority on father-son relationships?"

He rolled his eyes and let out a weary breath. "Look, I'm not trying to provoke you—"

"Your moving mouth is provocation enough."

He shrank back as a bitter smirk spread across Snape's harsh face. As the wizard leaned forward on the island between them, Kaltag knew he was done for. Snape's glare drove a stake through him like a stuck pig, right through the heart. His even responded in kind with a terse spike of pain. He could neither move nor tear his eyes away from the severity of the professor's. One look and he was spellbound by the brutal candor Snape seemed to exude all day, every day. So open, it still shocked him.

"Hear me now, because I will only say this once," he snarled lowly. "I do not want, nor will I ever need advice from a spoiled, unpleasant child who thinks he's wiser than his elders. Especially one who does not heed the very advice he dispenses. We are _not_ in a similar situation. I suggest the next time you have a constructive thought, you keep your useless counsel to yourself."

Neither of them moved, heated gazes still boring into one another, before Snape made the first move. He gestured dismissively to the cauldron and snatched up the yellow potion, rounding the counter toward the exit. "Bring everything up when it's ready. I realize it's likely you have never endured menial labor, but I'm sure you can manage."

As if released from the bonds of a spell, Kaltag broke from his immobile stance to shoot a baleful look at him. Instead he found himself seething in the kitchen alone, his glower wasted on the doors swaying to a stop. Sucking his teeth in annoyance, the young Being crossed his arms and scowled into the fire. He bristled, really bristled, but surprisingly, his resentment wasn't directed wholly at Snape. Although Snape must have known his words would deliver quite a blow, but he probably hadn't predicted they would have affected him so deeply.

But they weren't _supposed_ to. After two terms of his caustic tongue and relentless impatience, he was sure he'd hardened to the professor's personality (if he had one). Yet even now, the words dug under his skin and gnawed away at what little self-worth he'd stockpiled over the last few weeks.

So what had changed? There were no set of expectations to achieve between the two of them. He was sure he was growing less fond of Snape and vice versa; the thought alone was stomach-churning. It was impractical to think one stupid dinner with Snape's father could suddenly bring him to care for the professor's attitude toward him.

Something had definitely changed sometime between their arrival Saturday and tonight, and it burned him to not know what it was. Had Sorel's drunken history lesson initiated him into Snape's world? Was it the aftereffects of the Blood Guardianship? From what he'd understood, it didn't need any effort, but perhaps the—ugh, he could barely think the word without retching—adoption required it. At any rate, if this was considered warming up to each other, then he was better off taking his chances with Spiridon.

A gurgle from the cauldron fortunately broke his concentration. Sighing, he dragged across the kitchen to tend to it as Snape had insisted. He was somewhat impressed when the cauldron molded itself into a keening teapot at his touch: it certainly made his task easier. A quick check of the teacups had shown him Snape had dropped a hodgepodge of leaves and other herbs in each, leaving him to do the hardest part: getting everything up the stairs in one piece. Blowing out a breath, he waved his hand at the fireplace to snuff out the flames with a brisk wind.

They wavered, but held. Narrowing his eyes, Kaltag stared curiously at the fire before once again send a firm push of air towards the hearth. Nothing.

"Huh." Maybe the day's exhaustion was finally catching up with him. Or maybe Snape or Stout were the only ones keyed into the charms that sustained the fire. Worse yet, perhaps the snotty sack of wrinkles Hexed it to annoy him. Either way, he was cross, vines of dislike shooting through him like an electric current. He'd have to have a word with that elf, preferably when Snape wasn't around to stop him. He suppressed the dark glee that rose in his core upon pondering the scheme.

For now, he ignored the dancing fire and set the teapot at the center of the tray, then started his careful trek back to the sitting room. No doubt Sorel would make some barb about the delay. Or maybe he'd wait until after the boiling pot of tea was out of his reach. He snorted quietly to himself, mindful of the items he carried. Part of him tried to discourage the nasty idea, but a larger part believed the irksome patriarch deserved some measure of humiliation and pain. Not that he cared at all to retaliate for his past treatment of Snape. Really.

He hissed quietly when the set rattled as he made his way upstairs, but luckily, that was his only misstep. As he padded cautiously towards the sitting room, Sorel's formal tone carried down the stairway. He sounded more alert, the previous sludge of his tone noticeably absent. Must've been the potion from Snape, then.

"I meant to say earlier: I looked for you at that, er ... dismal place," he said with disgruntlement. "Spinner's End, is it?"

"You're spying on me now?"

"I needed to speak with you," said Sorel defensively. In a lower voice Kaltag almost missed, he adjusted, "Avery wanted to speak with you as well. He explained that you left the meeting rather quickly."

"I've said all that needs to be spoken. I do not wish to discuss the matter with him any further." There was a palpable skein of disapproval in Snape's tone, one that he recognized even from his distance. Finality also laced his words, clearly indicating the end of the conversation.

"Severus..." Exasperation and dissatisfaction were stressed in that single word.

"Our meeting is none of your business," bit Snape. The weariness in his words startled the young Being. "Avery should learn the meaning of prudence before he is forced to understand every aspect in a manner I am convinced would be most unforgiving."

"Perhaps you should have a talk with him, then."

Before Snape could respond, Kaltag's arms nearly faltered under the weight and heat of the service, sounding a riotous clatter echoing across the corridor. Inwardly cursing his luck, he ascended the rest of the stairs and entered the room, grinning tightly.

Slight color filled Sorel's cheeks, and he was crushing an empty vial between his walking stick and his palm. Perhaps now that he was sober, he remembered all the naughty secrets he'd disclosed while besotted by drinks. Good. Maybe now he'd take his snotty attitude down a notch or two.

"Tea's ready."

"And where have you been, boy?"

Or not.

Sneering, he sniped, "I don't have to answer to you."

"Kelton." He sent a tired frown in the Potions Master's direction as he set the serving tray down. Snape's expression bordered on frustration, but was beset by apathy. He was visibly weary of their spats, but he clearly wasn't going to stop them.

Kaltag caught Sorel's smug look and scowled. "No, but you do have to answer to my son."

"And he's not you, so back off, Cupid."

Sorel's derisive snort annoyed him to no end, but he did nothing, choosing to sag into the seat beside Snape and let them serve themselves. Arms and face folded, he didn't partake. Not unless Snape Senior wanted a lapful of hot water. Instead, he lazily watched curls of smoke waft from the teapot and cups disappear halfway towards the ceiling. Occasionally, he'd eye Sorel peering at Snape, waiting to catch his attention, but the professor was stubbornly looking elsewhere.

Several minutes of clinking china and silverware later, Sorel was the first—as always—to speak up. "Isn't it past your bedtime?" he inquired of Kaltagonus.

"You use that line to chat up all your bedmates?" he spurned before peering over at Snape.

The slight furrow in his brow troubled him. And then Snape answered, "Yes. It is well past your curfew."

Sorel's chuckle was proud and celebratory. Kaltag lobbed a black look in his direction, but the elder Snape was already sneering behind his cup of tea.

"Say good night to our guest," Snape continued, now staring at his father, "as I escort him to the door. It's high time we all turned in for the evening."

Kaltag softly snickered when Sorel's smirk waned.

"B-But Severus, our discussion—"

"I've heard enough." Snape was on his feet before Sorel started sputtering complaints. Kaltag watched with private joy as father and son engaged in a staring match, Snape peering down his hooked nose and Sorel glaring past his pointed one.

"Severus," the latter gruffly barked, "I _must_ have a word—"

"Say good night to Mr. Snape, Kelton."

From his place on the couch, he nodded sharply, an impish grin forming. "Sorbet."

"_Sorel_."

"Like it matters, whore!"

Sorel's face turned an unsightly shade of pink. Spittle flung from his lips in strings as he flapped his cane about, snarling, _"Rotten, shabby little yob—!"_ He sprang forward to thrash him, but Snape held him back with the same distaste as a teacher would a hysterical student.

"_Kelton._" His bright eyes flicked to Snape's upset face. Through clenched teeth, he ordered, "Bed. _Now_."

He surrendered with a shrug, giving Sorel and his walking stick wide berth as he left the room.

Of course he didn't completely obey Snape. He loitered on the stairway in the dark, listening as Sorel continued to pester the Potions Master for five more minutes. But the professor held firm, rebuffing his advances for a chat at every insistence. Sorel was persistent, pressing Snape until he realized he'd have better luck securing sympathy from a brick wall. He was impressed with Snape's resolve in the face of his father, but he would never admit that openly; least of all to Snape. He'd _never_ hear the end of it.

The telling _clink_ of the pocket watch sounded a few tense moments later and then came Sorel's biting call for Tipsy. There was a snuffling grunt, and soon thereafter the noise of glass breaking. Snickering quietly, Kaltag rested against the railing as a curse sounded, followed by a loud whack. He suspected it was Sorel's cane cracking against poor Tipsy's head. No doubt the elf would feel that come daylight. Then again, the pounding headache might drown out the dull the pain.

Finally, the slam of the front door echoed throughout the first floor, prompting him to hasten upstairs. The last thing he wanted was to get caught up with Snape in _this_ mood.

It wasn't until he entered the dark bedroom that he realized how sapped he felt. Paired with a day at the sculptor's and spending an entire evening restraining his tongue, he was positively knackered. He fought to stay awake long enough to undress and flop into bed, but his heavy lids seemed to have other ideas. As well, the darkness wasn't helping: the lights should have flickered to life by now. Those usually managed to stir a few more minutes of consciousness from him.

"Stout? Stout?" Where was that greedy creature now? Stuffing his face with tonight's scraps? "Sto—oh, never mind, stupid...."

With a miserable sigh, he closed his eyes, concentrating on maneuvering the atmosphere around him. It would take a flare of energy he barely had and slight push to power the lamps with fire. First year's work, really.

But nothing happened. Opening his eyes, he harrumphed to himself. _Must've been more shattered than I thought_, he mused. He tried again, focusing on images of the air swirling around him, drained of its heat. Of microscopic particles of power and light weaving around him, drawn to him, as if he was a giant magnet and the air buzzing with metal. He took a deep breath.

Still nothing. It was then he decided that Stout definitely had something to do with this. He had probably smuggled the lamps out and hid them while they were being held hostage by Sorel. Stupid Sorel. Stupid Stout. He was in no mood to cross paths with that annoying elf tonight.

Deeply frowning, he slid his wand from his pocket and gripped it so tightly his fingers ached. Screw Snape and his no magic rule. He hadn't listened to him then and he was certainly ignoring him now. If he hadn't been caught by now then Snape was losing his edge.

He murmured the Light Charm softly, wand aloft. In no time, the sizeable alcove housing the writing table and the door to the cupboard were bathed in pale blue light. This would do; he certainly didn't need the radiance of a burning sun or a backlit moon to undress. With a contented sigh, he set his wand on the desk and began unfastening whatever buttons passed his hands first. He was so done in, he toyed with the idea of going to bed whole suit.

It wasn't until he opened the opened the cupboard door that he realized that might've been a good idea after all.

With a startled cry he staggered into the desk behind him, knocking the lit wand to the floor. The blue glow reeled like a sluggish searchlight as it rolled across the floor. But there was no mistaking that face. Or the harsh, angular jaw and dark eyes flinty in the wandlight.

His heart hammered fearfully in chest, choking his words. "Deh ... d—dad?"

But Spiridon said nothing, choosing to stare disapprovingly down his straight nose at him, arms crossed in condemnation. Worse yet, there was pure disgust glinting in not just his eyes, but his whole bearing. Kaltag scurried across the room backwards on his hands until he scuttled straight at the wall, trapped. His breathing came out in fast, pithy bursts that burned his lungs. Coupled with his pounding heart, Kaltag was afraid one or the other would explode in his chest. It was very likely—_terrifyingly_ so—as long as Spiridon kept glaring at him in that way.

Although ... if Spiridon had stopped by, why would he sneak in? And why would he be hiding in his closet? Even with his heart drumming so rapidly, seemingly draining blood from every corner of his body, this didn't make sense.

"Who—who're you?" he spat in a slurring rush of breath. "Whad'you want? Why—why're you—here?"

He could see Spiridon's brow wrinkle, confusion briefly stunting his mounting swell of detestation for him. Something was wrong. Horribly off. Seeing his father like this shouldn't have set him off this badly, but the frenzied throbbing in his breast said otherwise. Sputtering a gasp, his hand flew to clutch his chest, as if merely a firm pat would put it back to rights.

He'd opened his mouth to snarl more questions when Spiridon's face scrunched, contorted, melted. It molded and folded across, eyes bugging in their sockets, skin bubbling into pockets of flesh and fat, dissolving what was once his father's noble visage. Gone was the General's pointed countenance, now a grotesque parade of several faces he couldn't make out, but their unfamiliarity alarmed him nonetheless.

Then it stopped. And it was worse. Much, much worse.

In addition to his near-bursting lungs and battering heart, his stomach dropped. Kaltag tried pressing himself further into the wall, desperate to disappear, to melt into the stone, but it was useless. He stared—he couldn't help it—at the red-eyed, spitting, hideous demon, horns sprouting from its forehead and teeth sharper than razors. He'd never seen this creature before, but his heart gave an extra, jerky—revolted—lurch nonetheless. He nearly missed it.

Underneath all of the gruesomeness, his own face stared back at him. _His_ face. Or some distorted, wrong version of him, eyes dark and glinting scarlet as rubies, fingers—talons, whatever they were sharp as knives.

The creature lunged at him with one of its wicked long claws. His heart gave a wild start, banging violently as if it were dying to flee from its place. Still boxed in, Kaltag couldn't escape, but was lucky the beast missed and retreated slightly into the closet.

But he wasn't so lucky when his vision wobbled. Lack of air, he vaguely thought, wincing hoarsely at the stitch in his side. He needed to get out of here. Get away, far, far away. To safety. To ... to ...

To Snape.

Suddenly, cutting pain like a dagger to his chest seized him, splitting like thin cables through his limbs, mapping lines across his body. Pain, pain—_God!_ If he survived whatever this was, he'd never complain in Combat again.

As his hand scrabbled futilely at his smarting, thudding chest, and white spots danced before his eyes tunneling his vision, he thought he heard a chuckle.

No—he _did_ hear a chuckle. An all too chilling and familiar one.

**_Surprise._**

There was such warped glee in that single word that it turned him. "Oh ... no. No, _no_, _no!" _Kaltag gagged and spat at the floor, wracked with pain and shaking with dread. "What the—" He stopped short. His voice rasped, aching. "What the—hell're y'doing?"

Another snort, another excruciating blow to his heart. **_Why, I thought it would be obvious. _**The beast laughed with such amusement Kaltag's stomach flopped.

He whined pitifully, thwacking his head against the wall. "What? Damn it, _what?!"_

**_I'm killing you, of course._**

oooooooooo

**A/N**: Thanks for reading! Sorry for the extensive delay. Seriously working on that. Lastly, be sure to check the site for news on the next chapter and the sequel. See you in _Eight_.


	8. 8: Heart of the Matter

**The Best Intentions**

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling's characters do not belong to me. They do spend the night occasionally, but really, our private gatherings are none of your business. (But Snape really does enjoy the odd cuddle, no matter how fervidly he argues against this statement.)

_Am I? – Inward thoughts. _

_**Kill it.**__ – Golradir thought-speech._

**Eight****:** Heart of the Matter

The pain was intensifying; winding a destructive path through to his brain, warping its reasoning beyond perception. Because he was sure he must have misunderstood the beast. There was absolutely no way he could have heard what he thought he did. At least he hoped so.

_**You didn't **_**really**_** think you could wave that magic stick at us all day and all would be put to rights? I did **_**not**_** let you live so you could be this stupid.**_

Kaltag bit his lip and let out a strained grunt. If it were any more possible, the pain seemed to swell with every throb. His eyes flicked over to his wand, hazy blue tip facing him just a quick shuffle away. Maybe if he tried a distraction, he could get it. Kaltag writhed and groaned as another pang in his chest struck him, a grim reminder that he might not be around long enough to try.

The sinister voice snorted. _**You **_**are**** not**_** getting rid of me that easily.**_

"You'll ... you'll kill me," he whispered, shutting his eyes.

_**Yes, that's the general idea.**_

"But y-you _can't_. You kill _me_, you ... kill us both!"

Golradir's laughter rang like a shrill bell in his head, inflicting a deeper twinge. Kaltag thought he might have deflected it toward his chest this time, with purpose.

_**Stop being so dramatic,**_ the beast drawled._** We are not linked.**_

Kaltag's cough turned into a wheeze. "Linked?" he winced, licking his dry lips. "But I feel you ... in me. Moving."

_**Yes.**_

"Growing."

A rasping groan passed Kaltag's lips, coupled with a profound chill creeping over him. It was not unlike Snape's wicked vines out front. Icy fingers spitefully constricted his heart, leaving him to struggle wearily in discomfort. His head felt heavier, like several thick books were stepping on it, pressing him into the floorboards.

A satisfied chuckle pierced the clouded arena of his mind. _**I get stronger as you grow weaker, yes, with every passing moment. Before long, I will dominate this body and you will breathe your last through this mouth, think your last thoughts. You will suffer the sensation of your heart speeding briskly towards its final beats before you are no more.**_

"No."

_**Yes.**_

_"No."_

He grimaced as the creature's skeptical chuckle boomed through his thoughts. _**You cannot stop me; you can't even fight off a little heartburn.**_

"I _can!"_ he snarled, slamming his fist on the floor angrily. That effort alone stole valuable breath from his lungs and energy from his body. Kaltag opened his eyes briefly, seeing first his wand, then the gleaming red eyes of the creature in his closet. "What _is_ that?"

_**Him? Oh, **_**now **_**you want to talk when you're in your last moments?**_

"I'm not—I'm not dying," he feebly declared, despite sensations to the contrary. His vision darkened at the corners and the world was becoming more unsteady than was normal. It didn't help that his breathing was labored, like he was trying to breathe with lungs full of sandy seawater. The palpitations were becoming increasingly worse, his heart pounding as if it were trapped in a box two sizes too small. But he couldn't focus on that, not with his wand just _there_, a short lunge and a Soothing Spell away.

Golradir snickered again. _**Defiant, even when facing death. Inspiring. Nevertheless, I will entertain your dying questions. Won't be long now.**_

He scoffed, though it was a sound more like garroted wire. Kaltag's eyes flitted to the wheezing monster above him. It had fallen back into the safety of the wardrobe, but its soft, waiting growls were audible. And its eyes glimmered with fierce abandon.

His mind echoed with soft laughter. _**You tell me.**_

"How should I know?"

**You**_** made it.**_

"I didn't—couldn'tve—"

_**Forged from the ruptures between us,**_ _**rolled into one basic, backward, slavering package. **_There was a pause, perhaps of contemplation, but he noticed the pain ebbed very slightly. _**Haven't named it yet, although I suppose since it's yours the task lies with you. Strong silent type; doesn't speak much. It doesn't speak at all, really. **_There was a snort of amusement, which altogether stunned and frightened Kaltag. _**Listen here: I even **_**sound**_** like you. Mercy!**_

"How? Why?"

_**Why?**_It was a mocking response, steeped plainly in disbelief. _**Because I **_**have**_** to, to blend in. Else, how am I to get things done? Integration?**_ Harsh laughter stabbed through his mind like shards of glass in the darkness. Was that in his mind? Or was it ... out?

Kaltag gasped, suddenly losing the battle to keep himself propped against the wall. He crumpled to the floor with a moan. All at once the faint wandlight snuffed out, casting the room in darkness. Only crimson eyes were visible in the shadows above him.

"Things?" His voice was slurring now, barely a whisper. He couldn't feel his hand on his burning chest, numb as it was from clenching so hard. "What things?"

A pregnant pause met his inquiry before: _**You should have let me out occasionally.**_

"What things?"

_**Stretch my legs a bit—**_

_"My_ legs."

_**What?**_

"They're mine."

A sharp hiss drove a white-hot spike of agony through his skull. He shuddered, a whimper catching in his throat. It felt as if the creature was prowling through his mind, shunning stealth and viciously striking down obstructions in its path.

_**Yours?**_ The word was tersely said, with more amusement than malice. _**How soon you forget. I made you what you **_**are**_**, boy: from a useless runt on the verge of death to a god with power, aptitude ... and life. Had I not been thwarted, you would be dead.**_ There was a glacial silence that split through the grey fog blanketing his mind._** I could have chosen anyone.**_

"Except ... y-you didn't," Kaltag whispered into the floorboards. He took a deep, shuddering breath that sent a wrenching ache across his ribs and back. He clung to his front, hand over stricken heart. "You picked me. You had ... you had options."

_**I still do. Scores of them.**_

Kaltag snorted. "So why are we here? If you have so ... oh-so-many _options_, why do _you_ still want _me_?"

His wand was behind him, but Kaltag was terribly aware that he would not get to it in time. Every hot throb of his rapid heart was getting closer and closer to its last. Not long now. Minutes, maybe. Seconds.

The room was filled with his harsh, numbered breaths as he waited for the creature to respond. But before he could demand an answer, there was another hot pulse under his palm. He winced, breath hitching in apprehension. If this was it, if he died right now without knowing _why _... there were no words for the sheet of dread riming over thoughts of things to come.

Destruction. Lies. Betrayal. Death. All because he couldn't stop it from killing him. The beast would soon be unleashed, and it was his fault for being _weak_. He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool wood floor.

A split second later, a hot lash of heat exploded in his palm. Kaltag thought it was his heart finally surrendering to the beast's abuse. It wasn't how he had anticipated it to happen: his heart bursting from his chest. Like in those awful horror films Nikola had dragged him and Starbuck to see many summers ago. But it certainly hadn't pained him as much as he had imagined. In fact, the pain had definitely receded to a tolerable burn ... which he didn't expect to feel in death.

Neither did he expect to still feel the hard floorboards beneath his body. Baffled, he decided to chance it. He opened his eyes, and stared, shocked.

His fist was glowing. A warm, obscene hue of neon red. And what's more, there was something pounding a rhythm within his palm. Something blazing, something angry: something whining well below sounds detectable by mere humans. Aghast, Kaltag pulled his closed hand into view and immediately felt something rough snare around his neck. Like a metallic rope or chain. Understanding struck him like lightning.

The Ravenstone Scepter. He could have kicked himself for forgetting he'd left it on earlier as a precaution. He gasped as another angry spasm constricted in his chest and with a snarling breath, he ripped the chain from his neck and thrust his fist above him.

Everything happened at once. A bright flash of light, a swirling spark of power surging outward in the darkness; every corner, every crevice, every surface was bathed in colored light—white, red, grey, black, and white—all churning across the room. A short, earsplitting blast of sound struck the air, something of a screech, but it lasted all of two seconds. He could have sworn he heard a roar from the general direction of the wardrobe, but none of that mattered now.

What caught his notice was the sudden ease in his body, as if someone had flipped a switch to 'off'. There was no pain, no tremor or paroxysm in his body. No whispers of death or vitriol. But his heart, it was still galloping toward collapse. With his fingers tight around the hilt of the Scepter, Kaltag stood, grasping at the walls to bear him up. The minute his feet were flat on the ground, he did the only thing he could think of. He ran.

He nearly crashed into the door before fumbling with the handle and dashing into the corridor. With the steel of the Scepter's shaft pressing into his slick palm, he sped through the dark hall and fled to the stairs. Unfortunately, his feet weren't quite as quick as his mind. He staggered after the first step, dropping the Ravenstone Scepter as he hastened to steady himself.

The weapon struck the steps with heavy thuds that were sure to be heard by Snape if he'd been in his office. It bounced off one of the latter steps and joltingly pitched itself across the floor and into the unlit breakfast room.

Kaltag hissed an oath and made to chase it, but was blindsided by a shooting pain twisting inside him. With a startled yelp he lurched, every part of him meeting the stairs, the wall, and the banister as he hurtled forwards, dim world spiraling violently around him.

It felt like he'd fallen for ages through the badly lit hall. Yet, he did stop, landing hard at the base of the stairway. A burst of breath was driven from his lungs, upsetting the thin coat of dust and cat hair on the floor. Still in pain, Kaltag grimaced, sparing only a few seconds for recovery. His heart wasn't getting worse, but the pounding was no less uncomfortable. He needed to find Snape fast. But at the rate he was deteriorating, he didn't think he would make it down another flight of stairs. Perhaps if he could reach the Scepter, or if he hadn't left his wand upstairs, he could have sent for the professor sooner.

But the Scepter had rolled behind a cabinet, bright colors waning and stirring feebly across glass and tile and polished wood. What was more, it was nowhere near him. He was getting worse. Left with no alternative but to call for help, Kaltagonus mustered the last of his declining strength to make the only logical choice.

"S-Stout..." He coughed, grimacing at the husky quality of his voice. "Stout, Stout, please—"

It was a number of long seconds before the telltale '_crack!'_ of the house-elf's arrival thundered beside him. Expelling a strained breath, chest pounding a rhythm under him on the floor, Kaltag rolled his head towards the noise. He could see the round of Stout's gut stretching his grubby towel and the coarse hair on the servant's crooked legs. A low grumble spoke of Stout's annoyance, but he couldn't be fussed with the house-elf's displeasure now.

"Help me; go—_Snape_. Get Snape." With every labored breath, the world seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer.

Stout's towel twitched, his belly rumbling with an annoyed exhale. "_Maestro_ Snape is busy."

"Please, Stout," he implored. Another sharp pang; his heart was still hastening towards his demise. The lights were going out. He could barely make out Stout's impatient form standing in front of him. "Please, get ... _please."_

He never noticed the pause his appeal gave Stout, nor the considering stare with which he was regarded. By that time, everything had gone black, with flutters of gold flicking at the edges.

ooooo

He was here again. The gold field. Only this time, there was nothing fantastic about it. Nothing wonderful. The breeze carried the chill of salty sea on the air. His panting breaths fogged 1unnaturally thick white clouds before his face. Even the setting sun offered only coldness. Visually, it still would have been stunning, what with its swaying wheat stalks and glorious orange heavens. If only the stalks hadn't been more crimson than the sky. With blood. Red, thick, ugly blood.

Just like the creature—like the boy was when he'd last been here. The boy, the—_monster_, dripping blood and hungry for a kill. He could feel no weight of cold steel in either hand to defend himself. But it appeared he was alone. He anticipated hearing the usual taunts from the beast, but none came.

He folded his arms across his chest, rubbing them to stave off the cold and turned East. More rolling fields of grain. No buzz of life in the distance; same in the West. Nothing. He was by himself. Exhaling with an anxious shudder, he faced North.

The blood was thicker here, darker. Completely soaking through the wheat. He could see it sprayed into the stalks some three, four rows deep.

_**Gorgeous, isn't it?**_

He hugged himself as if to quell the approving murmur that swelled inside him. This bloody well wasn't gorgeous or wonderful or lovely or at all stunning: it was sick. Disgusting. Absolutely repulsive. And he wasn't going to stick around for it any longer. With a revolted snarl, he made to turn around and walk away. Or tried to.

He hadn't even taken a step when he was struck with an overwhelming chill of fear. It was unreal; all in his mind, he feebly reasoned. But behind him, he could feel the thickness in the air. Dread. All the South-facing area was heavy with it. There was something horrible back there, behind him, and he didn't want to turn around.

_** But you simply must.**_

He shook his head, although he knew his protests were weak. Every fiber of his being urged him not to turn, not to give in; to take a different route. _Just __**don't**__ go South._

_**Are you scared?**_

Why, of course he wasn't! The nerve to even suggest it, why—the very idea was offensive!

_**So there is nothing to be frightened about.**_

He was hesitant to agree so quickly, but he did. The field was empty. Hell, the world was probably empty. Therefore, there really was nothing tying him there.

_**Go.**_

But the South: the feeling, it was still twisting around in his gut like a restless ball of snakes. Something wasn't right back there, behind him. Even the nippy air seemed ... just _wrong_.

_**The South is the best path. You **_**will**_** go South.**_

A sharp tug in his chest drew a hiss from his throat. Drawing him back: behind him. South, where he didn't want to go but something was compelling him. As if forcing him to turn, to just peek in that direction....

_**You must. There is nothing to fear.**_

Before he could argue otherwise, Kaltag found himself turning: South, straight through a patch of stalks. He winced, bracing himself for an onslaught of whatever fearful and foul things lurked about.

There was nothing. More wheat and silence and wrong air, but nothing amiss than some trodden-on wheat. His peeved grunt of frustration echoed across the pasture as he fought with the wheat, violently sweeping them aside. He hacked and he swung and he tore at them, uncaring if his freezing hands bled or if he destroyed the village's crops.

As he moved forward, Kaltag grew upset with his warier self. Nothing was wrong here; perhaps his mind was toying with him. There wasn't a clue amongst the wet stalks that gave away how wicked the South area was. He cursed his active imagination.

The stems were getting redder and redder, the low sun casting a reproachful orange gleam where his hands wrought havoc. He would clear a path and leave this field of frights if he had to pull up every damned stalk in sight.

Easier said than done, he realized, as his hands grew clammy and slick. He had a harder time venting his displeasure this way, pausing every now and then to wipe his sticky palms on his clothing. But the more he scrubbed them, the damper they became. Frowning, he rubbed his hands hastily on his front, then peered down at them. His stomach instantly dropped.

Not only were his hands wet with something dark, but his clothes were drenched in it. And there was some smeared on his arms, and he could see large spatters on his legs, and—God, even his face was stiff with some _thing_ that had dried long ago. He nearly missed the quickening beats of his heart, steadily progressing toward that dangerous tempo once more. But he didn't even know where it had come from, or why he was soaked through.

_**You don't believe that.**_

He was gasping again, shallow gulps of air that did nothing to calm him; that fueled the battering in his chest.

_**You **_**know**_**. Turn around.**_

He shook his head. The world was churning again, thick clouds rolling across the scarlet sky, sun sinking faster behind the horizon. Darkness pulled at the corners of his vision. He thought of this. Kaltag thought of all these things so he wouldn't give in to the compulsion, to the desperate urge festering inside him to obey the demand to—

_** Turn around.**_

Thick lines of gold were stitched across the skies, knitting with the reds and burnt oranges of sundown. If he could just focus, just watch the rushing sunset, he would be fine—

The stalks behind him rustled with impatience despite the lack of wind. That was all it took to break him down. Kaltag whirled around to face them, the tangible darkness, remembering too late he should have kept his eyes level with the stalks.

He didn't. He looked down, and suddenly couldn't breathe. Likely because bile had impeded that ability. The boy: the monster-child. It was—_he_ was ... gone. Grey. Skin pale except for the significant splotches of red all over him. And, of course, his eyes.

Only his eyes weren't the vivid gold he remembered. They were a very familiar shade of blue. Lifeless and neutral: familiar. Just like his....

ooooo

Kaltag jerked to awareness with a coughing fit, desperately trying to suck in mouthfuls of air. A dull ache throbbed to life as his chin struck something hard, and he dimly felt a warm grasp firmly holding his neck in place. He turned his face sharply away; something was badly stinging his nostrils. Thoughts of the beast—or worse yet, the boy—still fresh, he struggled against the strange grip.

"Be still."

He eased, but only slightly: Snape's stern voice was a welcome sound. He opened his eyes to see the professor stooped over him, dark eyes searching his face. From the solid surfaces at his back and under him (not to mention Snape's hand continuing to cradle his neck), he gathered he'd been propped against one of the walls. Stout had done as he'd asked, surprisingly. Now he owed the stubborn elf. Maybe he would bite his tongue when the next meal arrived scorched beyond recognition.

A muted clunk came from his left. Kaltag briefly let his eyes escape Snape's captive inspection to fall to the floor. There was a dust-ridden, almost empty jar beside them. He could just make out a few lumps of white at the jar's bottom.

"H-Hartshorn?" he whispered. His throat was hoarse and scratchy, with the unpleasant texture of sandpaper scraping gravel.

The crease in Snape's brow was discarded as promptly as it had appeared. What replaced it was an expression far darker, far angrier than he had ever witnessed. As foolish as it was to do so, he held his breath when Snape's fingers tightened around his collar. He was fenced in between that unusually pitiless gaze and the wall pressing against the back of his skull. The heat of Snape's rank mouth was so strong Kaltag thought breaking out the hartshorn to rouse him was uncalled for. When blunt nails dug into the soft flesh of his neck, he couldn't prevent the hiss that betrayed his worry.

"What did you take?" Snape's words were deliberate and measured, black eyes becoming more sinister as each word was spoken.

He eyed him strangely, shaking his head as another burning cough overtook him. This time, it felt as if that sandpaper feeling had spread to his chest.

But Snape angrily bared his teeth and shook him, furious. "If you do not want to die in three minutes' time, you had better stop lying to me." His free hand felt at the inside of his wrist now, bearing down with unnecessary force.

Kaltag thought it was odd he could feel the brisk beats against his skin and Snape's fingers. In his restlessness, he'd completely missed that his heart was hammering even now. It wasn't as hurried as before, to the point where he'd doubled over in distress, but it was nowhere near the average speed. The panic that suddenly flooded him about the beast returning gave it an unnecessary boost into full-blown medical emergency.

_"No,"_ he persisted, his terror mounting like high tide. "My—"

"Pupils are dilated and you are hyperventilating," Snape snarled. "If you have not employed the use of an illegal substance—"

"No, no drugs." When Snape's eyes narrowed, he gasped, "I'm not lying.

My heart hurts and I-I'm having pal—palpit—"

"Palpitations?"

He nodded once, making a frantic gesture at his chest. Talking was especially difficult when hyperventilating about dying yet again, he found. But he never anticipated he would be playing Charades right now with Snape of all people.

The professor's brow creased. "Exceedingly fast?"

He nodded again. Snape checked his pulse, this time touching his neck; his eyes narrowed. "And it shows no sign of deceleration. You're tachycardic."

Kaltag gave an embarrassing whine in answer. But he really could care less, what with his heart barking up one hundred and seventy beats and climbing. Lack of oxygen was making him faint, his body sagging so only the wall or the professor could support him.

Then Snape stood up and disappeared beyond the door next to them, black cloak whipping behind him importantly.

"Wha...?" Kaltag blinked, staring at the empty doorframe with increasing disbelief. Snape was leaving him _now?_ When he could practically feel his ribs cracking under immense pressure? Well, wasn't that _brilliant?_

His edginess was short-lived; he felt the intense discomfort, like his whole body was squeezed into a vise. Another agonizing current tore through him, the same muscle-cramping, back-bowing, fire-in-every-limb spasm. When the fit finally passed, Kaltag cursed, but his hoarse throat mangled it into a moan. God, what could be so important that Snape would abandon him and take his sweet time doing something else?

He listened, hearing only the sounds of clinking glass and light from the forbidden room before, at long last, Snape returned. Without a word, the professor swooped down, ducked a head under Kaltag's tense arm and hauled him to his feet. Before he could properly set one foot before the other, he was being dragged swiftly down the steps to yet another area of the house from which he was banned. Wow. Trespassing on two prohibited areas in one night; if he wasn't careful, he'd make a quick habit of Snape's distraction.

They dragged on, yet for all the rangy form he possessed, Snape seemed to have no trouble carrying his dead weight. Although, Kaltagonus inwardly insisted he wasn't completely useless. He might have stumbled on the carpet runner a few times, but he _did_ manage a few wobbly steps on his own.

They passed a blur of darkened doors and rooms, and once freed, Snape steered them to the last door along their left. From what Kaltag could see, it was unremarkable, but ajar. Snape nudged it open with his foot, and the pocket door coasted left easily to reveal an area warmly lit by candles.

Snape's study, he assumed, but he could barely think further than that. His heart was thudding against his breast with all the strength of an axe striking a tree. Kaltag's gasp was bone-deep; another knifelike twinge overtook him so strongly, his legs gave way. Snape hissed, a soft, unusual sound, and with a jarring yank dumped him into a nearby chair. An angry mewl followed, with Snape sniping crossly—almost certainly at one of his bleeding fur balls, (maybe Marta the pillow thief)—before urgent rattles of glass pinged around the room.

And then Kaltag's world shuddered. It blurred and thinned, and soon the study lighting streaked past his eyes as golden bands. His chest constricted, as if closing off once and for all.

For the briefest moment, just a split second, he wondered: _Would that be so bad?_

No more hurt, no more anger, no adults to decide what he could and couldn't do, no more _this...._ Just _peace_. Something he'd never had since before he could remember.

He respired slowly, shallow sighs in and out, and let the hand clawing at his chest fall limply to his lap. The clamor of Snape working out of sight was unclear, now. As if it was from across the house, or outside somewhere. Kaltag's eyes rolled downward, eyelids sliding closed with blackness waiting behind them, blackness framed with yellow—

But all of a sudden, something seized the front of his shirt and he was reeling once more, eyes wide open and air fleeing from his lungs. Snape was pulling him up, yanking his sagging form around the desk. Then the professor let go, let him drop to the carpet like a bungled book. Kaltag went down just as easily; his body was too tightly drawn to resist.

He barely had time to protest the manhandling before Snape's hand fisted his shirt and he was dragged forwards, facing a blurry hearth. A brisk string of muttered Latin and a rude bang later, a fire ignited before his large eyes.

The blueberry-hued smoke bilged like arrows, straight for him, obscuring his view. With no escape in sight and Snape holding him firmly, Kaltag could do little else but panic. Not because of how close he was to the grate, but more that Snape was lugging him _closer_.

The choking smoke thickened to where he could barely make out what was flame or what was Snape's shape. Between a strong turn of coughing, however, he still felt the fist at his collar. It wasn't heaving him any nearer to the fire, but it was keeping him in place.

On the other hand, the dark smoke freely roved over his hunched form: over, around, and through him. It wasn't behaving as usual smoke; it felt like ... well, it felt like a tender touch of fingers over his skin, and even in his mouth. Kaltagonus was even positive he'd felt something soothing him from within his chest, right where his sprinting heart sat.

"Deep breaths, Smythe," Snape's disembodied voice commanded. Kaltag obeyed, sucking in large mouthfuls of as told. And the fingers of smoke danced and stroked and cooled the fires burning throughout his body. Some impression of peace, just as he'd wanted earlier.

With his mind clearing, Kaltag realized whatever Snape had dashed together had been successful: his heart rate was coming down. Muscles were loosening, arms and legs gaining free movement again. Best of all, it was great not feeling as if he were in the throes of a stroke or heart attack.

Now that his death wasn't imminent, he noticed the smoke had a curious fragrance. There was definitely the potent scent of eucalyptus, but there was also a hint of cedar. Something sweet—vanilla, maybe?—and some lavender and lemon. There were traces of other elements mixed into the calming concoction, but he couldn't place them. Perhaps some parts were too diluted to be recognized; or maybe he needed to reacquaint himself with his Remedies books as soon as possible.

With his world righted, body steady, breathing normal, and his heart slowing, Kaltagonus finally studied the world around him. The smoke was not as dense as earlier, and he could see a low fire in the hearth's blistered kindling. He pulled away, sitting back to collect himself. Too close: he was sure he was a bit singed in the hair.

Of course, Snape didn't give him a break. As soon as he crumpled against the corner of the writing table, smooth fingers were immediately searching his neck, coming to rest at his pulse. Not knowing what to do (aside from scuttling across the room in horror), Kaltag froze, his own hands gripping his shins for support. At last, the cool fingers pulled away before he could properly feel their warmth below the surface.

"'S'running—_ahem_. It's running at one-twenty. I counted," he murmured. His voice was grating and his throat felt horribly sore.

Snape regarded him with a detached air as he crossed over to the other side of his desk, Kaltag's eyes following curiously behind. There was the sound of tinkling glass and a heavy thump all in quick succession before Snape returned, hoisting him to his feet.

"Much slower, but still far above average."

The professor deposited him in the chair facing his desk once again. Once settled, Snape handed him a glass of water, which Kaltag gladly took. Though it was merely water, Kaltag swallowed feverishly as if he'd been dying of thirst.

_Which is almost true,_ he grimly reminded himself, _among other things._ He wasn't bothered that some splashed down his shirt or dribbled down his chin because his hands were still shaking. Appearances were the least of his concerns at the moment.

The last of the blue smoke soon dispelled with a practiced swish of Snape's wand, clearing the way for soft light to fill the study. Snape strode towards the tall fireplace, gathering the discarded containers and vials he'd missed earlier. Most of them were empty; others still had remnants of ingredients scattered at the jar bottoms. The soothing cloud gone—as well as most of his beverage, Kaltag wiped his chin with his sleeve, taking a moment to examine the forbidden chambers of Snape's private study.

It didn't resemble the dungeon he assumed it would have been, and it was much smaller than he'd imagined. The fireplace dominated the wall behind the writing desk, tall and built with dark stone; apt for Flooing, what with its height and substantial width. Along the other walls were bookshelves crowded with books and an enormous padlocked cupboard. The wood floor was mostly covered by a large rug, moth-eaten in some places. Although, he spotted noticeable scorch marks and discolorations consistent with brewing. He wasn't surprised that this room doubled as a potion workshop. It was _Snape_, after all.

The desk itself was a reflection of the man who used it: prim, organized, and devoid of novelties. A neatly folded newspaper sat on one corner, a tidy mass of parchment on the other; a pile of old books was stacked beside the paper by increasing size. An antique quill holder along with two bottles of ink and a paper knife seemed to be the only personal touch Snape allowed. The fact that he lacked so much as an empty picture frame spoke volumes on Snape's private life to him: the man didn't bloody _have_ one.

"Did you not think it wise," began Snape, tone as bitter as spoiled lemon juice, "to inform me of your heart condition beforehand?"

Kaltagonus clutched the glass tightly in hand, watching the liquid slosh at the bottom. He shrugged a shoulder. "I didn't know. I don't have a heart condition. This hasn't—it's never happened before."

Snape's skepticism was nigh tangible. "Never?"

"Well, never this bad," he gruffly amended.

"So this ... complication," drawled Snape, "has occurred in the past?"

"But not like this. I never felt like my heart was about to explode," he clarified, straightening in his seat. "If I had recognized the signs, I-I would've told someone—_surely_."

Snape, busy setting one of the empty jars on the mantel over the hearth, faced him, eyebrow curving upward. "How often has this happened?"

Kaltag looked away from the wizard's inquisitorial stare to wrack his mind for answers. "Happened a few weeks ago, I suppose. At school a number of times: during Combat, practice and the like. A couple of times over the years, but—but _nothing_ compared to tonight."

He swallowed as Snape's searching stare seemed to probe deeper, as if looking for any visible untruths on his person. Finally, Snape strode to the desk and sank into the chair behind it, dark eyes cautiously observant.

"Have you any idea what prompted tonight's incident?"

"Uh..." Kaltag shook his head as if to clear it, but truth was his mind had never been clearer. Especially when he could plainly see images of the creature's dreadful face in his thoughts, coupled with the beast's voice, slick with malevolence. "The wardrobe. There was something in it. Something that changed and transformed itself into a ... a monster. I was alarmed and, well...." Kaltag gestured to his chest in conclusion.

Snape's eyes glittered attentively. "Transformed?"

He nodded once.

"And you did not see its original face?"

Kaltag shook his head. "It came out as one thing, then turned into another."

The professor's brow twitched so quickly he'd nearly missed it. At once, Kaltag prickled with blossoming fury. "Do you know what it is, sir?" _And did you leave it there on purpose for me to find,_ he inwardly growled. If true, the very idea was disturbing and vile. Snape might not have seemed like the type, but he didn't know the man well enough to absolve him so suddenly. "Well? Professor?"

Snape crossed long fingers before him and leaned forwards, brow flat but eyes faintly sparking with deliberation. "A boggart, perhaps. I will sort it out once I observe and identify what nature of creature I am dealing with. But now," he said tersely, "you will explain how you remedied prior episodes of attack."

Kaltag blinked, surprised. "Oh. Well, I, uh ... I don't have any remedies." When Snape's eyebrow arched in disbelief, he hurriedly replied, "I always went back to normal after I settled down or breathed or something."

"And now?"

It took him a few seconds to realize Snape had been inquiring about his current heart rate. With a stammer, Kaltag rested his fingers along his neck and counted in his head. He avoided Snape's impatient look so as not to spoil his tally. "About ... one-fourteen," he reported, then quickly finished the last of his water, avoiding Snape's critical eyes. Something told Kaltag that that number didn't exactly thrill the professor.

Snape's forehead creased, and he said as much in response. "That isn't normal. It should not be beating as fast as it is with you sitting here idly."

"I'm still recovering."

"Even so."

He cast a furtive glance at Snape to see the wizard still watching him with calm intensity. Kaltag quickly fixed his eyes elsewhere, choosing this time to toy with the seamless band beneath his shirt cuff. For a protective trinket, it hadn't done much good. Which reminded him: he needed to fetch the Ravenstone Scepter once he was done here. Perhaps he shouldn't take it off ever again if it was the one thing that _was_ protecting him from that — rather, _those _— monsters.

"Did your father send you here because of this?"

The question caught him so off guard he jerked backward, disbelieving. Snape was staring at him quite hard, as if daring him to lie and trying to read his mind all at once. But Kaltag could only muster a puzzled, "I'm sorry?"

"Did he send you to me," demanded Snape in a measured tone, "because of your burgeoning heart problem?"

Narrowing his eyes, bemused, Kaltag shook his head. "I—I'm not—"

With a crisp sigh, Snape didn't wait for an answer. His expression turned hostile as he briskly stood from his seat and marched toward the shelves, taking up his jars and moving toward the entrance. As he passed, Kaltag distinctly heard him murmur, voice tight with fury, "I _am not_ a Mediwizard."

Then Snape was gone, leaving Kaltag to quietly mull over the last half hour. Snape had a point: was that also why he was sent here? Not just because of his rejecting the blood protection? Did Spiridon know the toll this would have on his health? Because rather than have the potion master flit back and forth between countries, he decided to send him here in case an emergency arose?

Yet, he considered how seldom Snape spoke of his other _malady,_ and was almost certain this wasn't the case. So what was Spiridon playing at if he hadn't told Snape everything? And, _God_: what was he hiding _now?_

The thick, familiar roil of anger stewed inside him like a spurred beast. It would be just like Spiridon to employ deception in such a delicate situation. Kaltag practically expected this to happen, and was dismayed to learn he had missed it. Snape hadn't mentioned anything because he _knew_ nothing. And like him, he was just a victim in Spiridon's schemes. Damn it.

Kaltag frowned deeply at the fire, watching it waver slightly beneath his glare. Once again, Spiridon was controlling the circumstances from afar. God, he almost felt sorry for Snape. But not _quite_.

At the sound of footfalls increasing from a distance, he faced the door in time to see Snape's entry. "The issue in your wardrobe has been sorted," he growled as he strode back into the room. Kaltag tracked his path from doorway to desk chair, spying the pair of felines trotting at his heels. Goodness, those two were faithful.

"Was it—"

"A boggart, yes. You—"

"Is it still in there?" He was deeply aware of how silly and fearful he'd sounded, but it was better to look like a child now than a fool later. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

Snape sharply eyed him for a moment, then answered, "It's gone. You may return to your quarters." Snape cast him another probing look before turning away. He then plucked a long, brown quill from its placeholder and fingered a thin, leather-bound book wedged between the fat ones at his elbow. Once open, Snape leafed swiftly through the pages.

But he didn't move fast enough: Kaltag still caught glimpses of pages filled front and back and top to bottom with cramped writings of lists and paragraphs. When he finally reached a clean page, Snape dipped his quill in a pot of ink and froze. Kaltag watched the methodical process for several seconds, waiting for what, he had no idea, before he gave up and peered at Snape. He blinked. The professor was staring at him none-too-kindly.

"Problem, Smythe?" The edge to Snape's voice spoke volumes, but the message was simple: _get out._

"Er—um, no," he promptly replied, shying away as Massimo wound around his ankles. Kaltag resisted the urge to send him away with a hard nudge, but he really didn't fancy being flayed by Snape if anything unfortunate happened.

Snape's bothered expression was magnified tenfold with half his face cast in firelight and the other in shade. "Then why are you still here?"

Toying with his wrist cuff, the young Being made an uneasy face. "I was only wondering, if it happens again, this ... problem, what—"

"I will handle it."

"How? If you don't mind me asking? Sir?" He tacked the latter term on quickly as Snape's expression darkened. "I mean, you barely handled it in time, and if it turns up again—or worse, when I'm _asleep_—"

Snape's eyebrows rose. "So it's _my_ fault you could not recognize the symptoms of a potentially harmful ailment? Even after it befell you numerous times?"

Kaltag shook his head, frowning. "That's not the point."

"The point is," Snape growled, his voice an octave deeper, "this needs to be prevented before it escalates into an uncontrollable issue."

"It already _is_ an uncontrollable issue. The question is how do you intend to prevent it, _sir_?"

The professor's eyes gleamed with irritation. "How do you think?"

Kaltag shrugged half-heartedly. "I dunno ... a potion?"

"Of course, you silly child." Kaltag bristled, but Snape plodded onwards. "Suffice it to say, matters of the heart tend to be problematical, especially since I must work around the presence of Lamiai tracing toxins and whatever else is wired in your blood."

Hearing this gave him pause. Kaltag leaned back in his seat heavily. He was sure his heart sped up at the mere mention of that night. "But I thought I was properly Cloaked?"

"Cloaked or not, the venom is still lurking in your system. As well, this ... condition could be a side effect from the poisoning itself," explained Snape, "or was amplified by it."

Well. That certainly made sense. "Oh. I see."

"Indeed." Snape stared at him with a strange look before focusing back on his journal.

Nodding slowly to himself, Kaltag murmured, "All right, then. I suppose I'll just ... head off to bed."

Snape didn't even glance up from his furious scrawling. "Yes."

"Right. Thanks. I'll just ... I'll just go."

"Please."

But he didn't move. He remained in the chair a while longer, knuckles white from gripping the armrests so tightly. Snape was either ignoring his presence or didn't know he hadn't gone. And he was urging himself to move, to get up and get to bed now, but something _gnawed_. Nagged and twisted inside him like a restless creature.

He licked his lips and shifted his gaze up from Snape's hand. It swiftly moved back and forth across the page with more of that untidy, cramped writing. Kaltag studied Snape, but got no attention in return.

Finally, he burst out, "Can I ask—"

"There are no bogeymen hiding under your bed, Mr. Smythe." Snape stopped writing long enough to grace him with a derisive smirk. "I checked."

Kaltag glowered. "I meant to ask what you intend to use in your potion. Shouldn't you—I dunno—_ask_ me if I've got any allergies you should worry about?"

He was pleased to note his statement made the professor pause for brief seconds. Finally, Snape's dark eyes flashed, and his gaze fell back on his journal. "Do you?"

"Aside from some human medicine," he began, scouring his brain for answers, "I don't know."

"Then why are you squandering my time with nonsense?"

"I'm merely curious. I mean, this is going into _my_ body, after all."

Snape favored him with a sharp glance before looking away. Maybe it was his imagination, but Kaltag thought he was pressing the quill to parchment harder than before. "If you die in my care, then I am hardly a worthy candidate for guardianship, am I?"

Kaltag arched an eyebrow and smirked. "Why? Are you suggesting something?"

"Are you claustrophobic?"

"What? No," he replied, marvelling at how fast Snape could fill a page with experimental potion work. "I wasn't _in_ the closet with the boggart." It was important to him the professor knew that. Whether Snape already thought him frightened of closet monsters or not was moot.

"Can you recall if you have had any adverse reaction to chestnut, ginger, or garlic?"

Kaltag shook his head. "No, no, and garlic upsets my stomach."

"Medically or gastronomically?"

"Gastron—no, I still eat it. Just ... keep the loo clear." He grinned wickedly at Snape's dark look before resuming with, "What about cayenne pepper?"

Snape favored him with a glare. "We are not making dinner, Mr. Smythe."

"The capiscum in cayenne boosts heart circulation," he said rather sharply. "Any good remedy-maker knows that."

"True. But far be it for me to proclaim myself a Mediwizard, it is not that the heart isn't circulating. The problem lies with it circulating far too quickly," said Snape, casting him a shrewd glance. "So fast, in fact, it is a detriment to your health."

"Or death."

Snape halted writing, but continued with a curt nod. "Indeed."

"Mind you, if I die, then you're not as good as I thought you were."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he froze. He had no fathomable idea why he had just complimented Snape. Perhaps it was the wine he'd snuck a sip of in the kitchen coming back to haunt him, but this was wrong. Thoroughly embarrassing on too many levels. No doubt he wouldn't hear the end of it.

But to his great shock, Snape looked less than flattered, and completely uninterested. Good.

Conversation and brief spats about ingredients continued on like this for the next few minutes. Kaltagonus was quite surprised the professor easily sparred with his suggestions—the use of hawthorn, Chinese foxglove, valerian root, etc.—without completely shooting them down. It was an aspect of Snape he had never expected, comfortably (or as comfortable as that man could get) making up the potion that would solve his arrhythmic issues. It was almost—dare he say it—enjoyable.

God, he'd been around the man too long, and it had only been a few days. Kaltag was certain he would need to get his head examined by Mender Magus once back at school.

Finally, Snape pulled his quill away from his journal and stared at him, expression quite serious. Well, that was one way to terminate the relaxed mood. Frowning, Kaltag asked, "What is it?"

"I will need to draw blood." Snape's eyes briefly flicked to the silver paper knife on his desk. "I'll need assess its reaction to the trial antidotes before I can test them out on you. Wouldn't want your brilliant father accusing me of feeding you poison, of course."

"Oh." He swallowed anxiously. "Convinced there's something in the blood, are you?"

"It would be wise to unravel all possible causes early, yes," answered Snape. "And in such a case as this, it is not uncommon to find the answers to my questions in one thorough appraisal."

Kaltag felt uneasy. Snape wanted his blood. His poisonous blood. The blood that killed. And if Snape mishandled it, there was no telling what would happen. "Right now?" he asked, the distress in his voice thick. "I mean—"

"Of course not, boy," snarled Snape. "I am not so soulless that I would impress upon you more suffering tonight." His smirk, on the other hand, spoke the opposite. Git.

Tensely, Kaltag replied, "You're too kind, _sir_."

Snape held his gaze for a few seconds longer before taking up his quill again. "The hour is late. If you're quite finished, you can take yourself and your cynicism back to bed. And try to schedule your next fit _after_ dawn. Good night."

"Hardly."

With that—and a scowl—Kaltagonus gingerly made his way out of Snape's study and back upstairs. He retrieved the glowing Ravenstone pendant from the breakfast nook, and once it was secured around his neck, he returned to the bedroom. Although he was very sure sleep would be quite a task tonight.

Upon opening the door, he was awfully pleased to see Argentum waiting for him on the chair again, greeting him with a soft, inquiring hoot. It wasn't quite as calming as he'd hoped, but it was enough. And, though he would never admit it aloud, he was grateful for his owl's presence. If not just for companionship, then for the discomforting fact that Argentum's company kept the monsters at bay.

He stroked the owl's back as he passed (Argentum flattened himself and ruffled his feathers in delight), but as he approached the alcove housing the closet, Kaltag stopped. He stared at the partly open door with a ball of dread coiling in his stomach.

Less than an hour ago, he'd been fighting Snape's father. Then he'd run up here to change for bed ended up battling ... something. Snape had called it a boggart, but the beast in the mirror had been no magical creature. It was definitely _Him_. And he'd nearly been killed by his latest scheme. Wincing, Kaltag immediately settled a hand on his chest, over his heart. The Ravenstone pendant was hard and smooth and warm beneath his palm, as if reassuring him. Protecting him.

But boggart or no, there was still a threat in that corner. In the mirror. In every mirror. And not just mirrors: fear digging at him from all sides, Kaltag cast his eyes to the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up his room. Any and every reflective surface could send him straight into a fit.

The very notion made him jerk his gaze away, once more toward the unlit corner. The mirror, though empty, gleamed darkly. Almost beckoning him. Daring him.

He was brought out of his stupor when Argentum gently nipped at his finger. Blinking, Kaltag offered his owl a small grin and tickled the feathers atop his head. With an indulging squawk, Argentum settled, large eyes watchful.

Now that his feathery protector was set, Kaltag slipped off his shirt, stepped out of his shoes, and at last eased into bed. No change tonight. He'd do it tomorrow, in daylight when it would be safe.

oooooooooo

* * *

**A/N:** Happy New Year, and thanks for reading! After a very long hiatus, I'm finally back. And it feels _brilliant_. Thanks for sticking around, and I appreciate your constructive feedback!


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